I can’t believe
That we’re still livin’
Oh, in this crazy, crazy world
That I’m still livin’
With all the problems of the day
How can we go on?
So tired of hearin’ people say
"How can we go on?"
The energy of sadness from St Louis crept into my room
And straight into my heart
Aja Monet on repeat
Trying to write out these scars
The pain goes deep
I wonder how we can ever be happy here again
I wonder if we will ever get back our own land
If we can’t get back the lost life.
These recent actions are not appreciated
I know you better
Than they do.
What you call “showing love” is not actually to show it for me,
Or too make me feel good,
Playing it to the public that everything is all good,
While I still have your hateful emails of unedited threats
Saying you’ll expose my body to the fucking internet
I’ll never let you manipulate me to be ashamed of my East African beauty,
You tried so many times to make me believe I was prideful and ugly for it.
While in the public cheaply praising our African Woman for being strong
I thank my Ethiopian ancestors for keeping me strong
Igzee’abihier Yimmesgen, its what we sing in our songs.
You do these fake actions to show others, that you’re a, “good person”
So you can have a mask to hide behind when you are ready to play victim again
Real eyes recognize the reblogs as politics in disguise.
While your toys continue to send me hate mail
Trying to tell me, I should let Facebook see MY body
Which lets me know you are still at it with your disgusting manipulation
Of peoples understanding of you.
You lie so much
You have started believing
In your own shit.
My next tears will be for your next victim,
I’ve given you too many of the diamonds that leak from my eyes
You’d think a man like him would be rich by now,
But he’s the type who throws his undeserved treasures away
Foolishly mistaking them as trash.
Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
You say: It’s nothing now.
You don’t say: But it was everything then.