Body language

Run your fingers down my spine and I’ll tell you of the time I believed heroes didn’t wear capes but afros, dresses and kaftans. Press your forehead against mine and I’ll tell you of the time I wanted to trust the world implicitly. I’ll tell you that my eyes never left the sky and I didn’t slow down, not even once, because there was too much life to live and not enough time. Kiss my lips and I’ll tell you about how ferocity lives in my genes. That falling too easily has torn apart so many people in my family it was bound to get me too. Curl yourself into the gentleness of my frame and I’ll tell you that my scars are proof that it all existed. I’ll tell you that when it comes to people my body always weighs the risk, my heart always desires care and my mind is always evaluating my imperfections. Soak in my Blackness and know that the air is always thick and my tears are always thin. My skin serves as scar tissue carrying memories that never fade and proof that my ancestors existed in the same space.