you bleed in such small breaths;
droplets, not puddles.
You borrow my hand
without knowledge of fingers or wrists.
Without functions or mechanics. It’s all in
the verbs, baby. You.
Even now, you don’t get anything.
You are not the Great Pretender. Motion
does not matter in your trials of exception.
I scoff favors: I will write this
in a manner so you can keep
up, keep stealing without properly fitted gloves.
You, so weak in the spine you
when it’s time to dismount.
I think you like the ride too much,
except you don’t know how
to groom the horse before you saddle.
Should you steal my child, too?
She is blue eyed, blonde haired puerto rican.
She is no one’s white bitch. Watch closely as
my lover lets me lick the crispy part
of the pernil while he whispers
que linda, mami. A Puerto Rican
tongue is a blade. I own one. Yes, you bleed
in all the wrong places,
like the main artery of your upper thigh.
You, small white bitch. You small thief. You,
just so small; the other woman
in Simone’s story. You beg to make it
our story, too. But you’re a small sapling
in this word canopy. I cut you down
with a deft pen.
© all mine.
Inspiration given credit to: