the failings of a surgically healed heart | a collection

INTERLUDE (vi);

i look in the mirror, after months spent feeling sorry for myself. only to find the world changed while i was hibernating/playing dead;

for one, oppression isn't fashionable anymore - not unless you plan to rid the world of it

take that noose/ rosary
off of your throat

my reflection tells me,

there are enough dead brown boys who were hung and now are gone for imagined crimes.

don't wear that one around your neck like he is a martyr or some shit

though startled, i listen. tear cruxified body away and let the beads fall to the floor.

my reflection adds;

you don't need to spend your entire existence mourning a death that is assured, either. the black of your skin doesn't mean your whole life is a funeral.

i nod. and put on my "space" coat, sprinkle glitter on my cheeks and wear the fluffy socks.

there is such a genre as happy poetry, too, my reflection says, a soft laugh in her voice.

(why didn't i the memo sooner?
i think)

not to mention;

there is still so much goodness and happiness and love, in this world. if you willing to look. i dare you to find it
and when you do: bask in its glory. before it's all over.

i smile a toothy grin and leave the comfort of my room, for the first time in far too long, and try to do exactly that.

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Y'alls need to get me in the bin this is the second time I've almost forgot to publish, expect the first poem for this final part on Friday :)