I don't remember how I hurt myself,
The pain mine.
Long enough for me
to love the wound that invented it.
As none of us knows the beauty
Of our own eyes.
Until a man tells us they are,
Why God made brown. Then
That same man says he lived to touch
The smoothest parts, suggesting our
Surface area can't be understood
By degrees of satin. Him I will
Follow until I am as rough outside
as I am within. I cannot locate to origin
Of slaughter, but I know
How my own feels, that I live with it
And sometimes use it
To get the living done,
Because I am what gladiators call
A man in love-- love
Being any reminder we survived.
- Jericho Brown
YOU ARE READING
Poems She Wrote
LosoweThis is a book of poems and quotes some written by your truly others no so much. These are not exactly happy poems so if you don't like that then bye. Just kidding, anyway hope you enjoy this better than my other writings which are crap. P.S. the on...
