Like cracked paint on a fossilized wall, I want
to peel, pick and uncover the memories of My Blackness
that embellish the inner makings
of my consciousness and
allow the air of my breath,
the air that spoon-feeds these nostalgic moments with
shimmer, infinity, and a deep sense of life, to slowly
expose the artifacts of the mind.
As each memory in time is pulled apart, I begin to see all of me.
I can see, taste, and exist with the ingredients of My Blackness.
I see the incense smoke of my orange bricked home.
The smoke that acts as the building blocks to all the
physical elements that exist and exhale in that space.
I can see
the
dancing
and
leaping
of the smoke
as it displays images and vibrations
only those who reside here can decipher.
(With each scent,
a new fable is unlocked)
I see my mother, the woman
who was the first person to teach me
what real Black beauty is, braiding my
coils every night, nurturing my scalp with
Blue Magic, Black spirit, and vitality.
I see who I once was: A young gay Black boy
scared
anxious
lonely
broken
but was one who always grew flowers from the
palms of his chocolate hands
and whose blood was purple and gold.
The love letter to my Blackness
is written using the fingers of experience and
on the paper of time passed, and of time yet unknown.
