Wound festering with beguiled treachery

Finding solace in the last places we ought to be

Seeking our salvation from a white-faced deity

Needing to jump and shout to feel our inherent electricity

Not realizing we’d stifled our power a long time ago

Flesh freshly opened every time we shut our mouths unwarrantedly

Mirroring flesh freshly flaunted in decades past on a poplar tree

Generations broken by braided cords

Holding on

Braided to our scalps

Our broken words

Our Heads put at our feet

We’re trampling on our fantasies and fantastical feelings

Running in marathons with floating finish lines

We’ll never reach.

Leaving lessons on our lips

We’ll never teach

Finally establishing nice things

They’re going to latch and leach.

Our blood must finally be good enough for them now

After generations of saturating the kale that grew in other’s ground

Black blood must finally be sweet enough now.

How does anguish taste?

Did you ever consider what truly made your bitter greens so?

Or has hypocrisy bleached your pallet so

That you don’t notice?