my heart aches and I can't tell if it's because I miss you or because while you look at me, you're dying to find a piece of her, too.

I can't bare to see anyone cup your face or love you because that would mean that it's over for us. over for me.

and I can't believe you brought her into the home we've created because now she knows where the cracks are in the foundation.

I can't believe believe I was so afraid to tell you always poured salt on open wounds in fear of seeing you go when all you did was leave anyway.

I prayed for your love every night and right when I got close enough to kiss you your feet, you walked over me and into the sunset of her eyes.

I begged for forgiveness; every night night I spent washing your feet, I failed to see that the dirt n them didn't belong to the road leading back to me.

I begged for your love all the nights I spent crying in my own arms to be forgiven because I was dreaming they were yours.

I begged for mercy since I knew I wouldn't get any from you.
and now I sit in the rubble of what we could've been, instead of basking in the love of sacrifice.

who the **** am I?
what the **** do I look like?
where the **** do I fit in?
I say as I'm mindlessly brushing my teeth.  I look at the image in the mirror and ask them, "where did you even come from?"
There is no reply, only an echo of what I think my face is.

where the **** am I going?
how the **** am I going to get there?
what the **** do I even want?
I ask the image. There is no reply, only desperation in its eyes. "Do you even want to be here right now?" I ask the imagine. No answer. But I think yes. I think the image wants to be more than that. I think it wants to be. Simply, be.

I walk back to the mirror. Exist, I tell the reflection. Just exist, I tell myself

"you're really pretty for a black girl"
I swallow that backhanded complement hard.
I can feel the shards of glass that came with it.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like beauty isn't synonymous with being black.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like passing a test I don't remember signing up for and I should be grateful I passed without preparation.
"you're pretty for a black girl" does not mean you're pretty. that means you're pretty by exception, and not because you just are.
   and that's not a compliment.
"you're pretty for a black girl" I hear them say it for the last time.
I clench the hem of my shirt , look them straight in the eye and say without missing a beat, "No. I'm just pretty."

I feel so lost and trapped again. every turn is a wrong one
never enough space to breath or understand or talk
it’s upsetting that this is what it comes to sometimes
I need more, I need less, I need something
i feel so out of touch with myself, it’s makes things uncertain
but only for those who count on me to be blind
turn
turn
turn again
it’s always a wrong turn,
maybe it’s more of a circle and we are simply getting dizzy

she makes me look her in the eyes before she asks me questions.
she thinks she can tell whenever I'm not being truthful. the only thing I hope she sees is hurt. I hope she can see how badly I wish she'd just be honest with me. she says she can tell whenever I lie, she says I can't lie. but why would I when this is the only life I will live at one time and if I ever lived another, I can't remember.
lie detector.
I'm not telling the truth until I'm so overwhelmed with defeat that my eyes slowly push tears from my eyes, like a string of pearls.
I didn't know lie detectors could make you question your psyche's interpretation of everything you knew about them, about yourself.

doubt: as tiny as a mustard seed that grows a sequoia in your diaphragm.
its branches growing leaves in your lungs, making every breath you take rustle in your throat, further restricting your breathing day by day. doubt is killing you. doubt makes your stomach turn every morning and night when your mind is most tired, vulnerable, empty.

growing until its roots are attached to your bones and it becomes what wakes you up every day before the sun rises just to think about it. just to feel its weight on your body, sinking you further and further into the floor. before you know it, there is no more soul. there is no more you. you have been replayed with this flourishing sequoia tree of doubt, that when it sheds its leaves, and it is no longer present, you will never remain the same. the bowls of your soul will remain deep and echo. doubt has changed you. your lungs are empty, brittle, and ache. doubt has left you tired, vulnerable, empty.