Love Thy Self…..

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Who taught you to hate your skin,
your beautiful melanin?

Who taught you to despise your thick lips
the weighted dips and curves God blessed you with and the meeting place of your thighs?

Who taught you to hate the beauty of your broad nose and wide nostrils?

Who taught you to curse your hair, beautiful tight
tendrils of Orphic Elysian fields?

Who taught you to hate your Brown sister, your
Molasses
Butter
Cinnamon
Hazelnut
Nutmeg
Light
Honey sister?

I know you feel like the crackled lines of crumpled up paper
thrown away as trash.

I know you feel like the smudge of ink on paper.

But you are the daughter of Eve, cut from the rib of Adam.
Breath of God in her lungs, with the cry of war in her womb.

Trees of truth grow from the backs of your throat, the fruit
pushing through closed mouths, ready to be picked, eaten, digested
and savored.

If they could, they would cut your skin, peel it back from your flesh
and wear it down runways as if they designed it.

So, who lied to you and told you, you’re not beautiful?

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4 Letter Word

Don’t tell me love is serene;
that it is quiet and still like
late afternoons.

Don’t tell me love is the slow burn
of an arsonists fire imbued with
beautiful hues of sapphire blue; that it is elegance made of the finest silk draped around bare shoulders.

Don’t tell me love is a burst of radiant spectral light; blinking
stars made of dust, exploding and breathing life into dead things.

Don’t tell me love is a slow drumming that builds and bursts into
a glorious symphony.

Don’t tell me.

Show me.

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Praying For A Miracle

Sometimes God splits the veil
He pulls back the curtain
granting petitions made in closets
of faith, on their knees with heads
bowed in Grace.

Your mother has hope that God will
split the veil for her
that you, her wayward son will repent
and find Jesus in the red letters of
the Gospel, that you’ll trade in your science for religion
your alcohol for the blood
For her sake, I pray God will grant her that miracle.

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Pussy Connoisseur

The reflection of us in a room of mirrors, playing scenes on a rumpled
bed of satin..words sit on my lips that I can’t quite convey

My feet rest on broad shoulders
these legs a perfect frame for his face..he, spelling his name in circles; an artist, my pussy is where he paints beautiful murals with his tongue

Created a mystery, he tells me I was meant to be discovered…
Taking his time he sucks of me the sweetest of fruit that hangs from any vine…greedy…he swallows me
enjoying the taste of me

I am awakened like the blossoms of spring from winters cold..

© All rights reserved 2016