I will always believe in you. My prayers fall from your lips and remind me that I am on holy ground. That what our bond births is divine. That it was written long before we locked eyes or held hands or held hearts or could fathom the enchantment that lives beneath two tongues swelling with praise. I know every morning upon waking that you are the light that illuminates my path to righteousness. My spirit won’t allow me to feel anything besides your absolute audacity to shine.
Stop allowing the ache of loss to remain swept beneath bedroom rugs and secrets to linger between our teeth, shreds of translucent grandeur, holding on for dear life, afraid of spilling. We have learned from inescapable observances that we are pillars of indiscernible woe. I fear that we have simply been masquerading our silence as discretion. How many of you are still unraveling, at the prospect of an apology that you have never tasted? Licking wounds from generations ago, abrasions that do not even belong to you. My darling you have drenched your body in throbbing without justification, for a namesake that has been eternally disloyal. Afraid to heal because your mother wore her injustices like an apron, with two front pockets full of the way your grandparents rarely had sweet words to exchange with each other for the whole of her like. She baked pecan pies with the furrow of her mother’s brow and quick language. She left you to feast on grievance and you can’t figure out how the disposition of your adulthood became a repellent. You can’t stop laying your self open to be feasted upon by fraudulence and all of your inside parts feel stolen.
“Not everyone is okay with living like an open wound. But the thing about open wounds is that, well, you aren’t ignoring it. You’re healing; the fresh air can get to it. It’s honest. You aren’t hiding who you are. You aren’t rotting. People can give you advice on how to heal without scarring badly. But on the other hand there are some people who’ll feel uncomfortable around you. Some will even point and laugh. But we all have wounds.”
That one of the greatest rhyme stylists this generation can lay claim to may not even be a rapper at all defies the very nature of what we have come to expect from hip-hop’s new class. He raps, sure, but any attempt to label such proficient prose would be futile. Drenching narratives in …
do you see this goddess you make of me?
the way our love glitters before the gods
like our connectivity alone can pull stars from the sky and drop them into the ocean
like pennies in heaven’s wishing wells.
the thing you are most
afraid to write.
No parts of you are supplemental. You are some kind of illumination, though. A light that douses me in a seemingly masochistic burden-bearing exchange. I wore your spine today and your hurt felt negligible on me. I have had to be diligent in reassuring my lover that I am swallowed by your language and I only crave your conversation. And when he threatens me with silence I can’t help but require an eternity of you. I asked you to talk forever and he hates the way I command your tongue.