poetry drips from my lips like drool from yours

like spit from yours

like malcontent spinning in honey

in syrup made from the burning back of my mother

of my grandmother

of my father's empty spaces—

his absence speaks volumes, no?

poetry leaves my body like breath does from yours

like heat does from yours—

in the height of winter as you lay in that single bed

cold

haunted

devoid of the things that have made you human—

the pain is a mountain, no?

poetry holds my hand like you grip her thighs

her wrists

it lets its lips dance across my skin

you hold her waist, her legs, the dip in her back

its nose hovers over mine and we're spellbound

you moan and scream and you're falling apart all over each other

we sit and stare at the stars that we have made—

our world is a beautiful one, no?

poetry and i—

we came from the same mother;

the same burning sands

the same black skin

the same years of torment—

of AMANDLA

of AWETHU

of YOU STRIKE A WOMAN, YOU STRIKE A ROCK.

poetry meets me there—

in-between each stroke of ink

each tap at the keyboard

blood pooling in its hands

shadows staining its face.

poetry thought we bled the same.

while i weep for you

poetry screams

unfolds

devastates

for me.