Who do you think you are to tell me who and what I can love when you’re not lovable or kind.
Who do you think you are to toss me out of my house as if scavengers speak the language you barely understand.
Who do you think you are to order the messaging to remove instincts that you recognize when the sweat of the night is your only form of revival.
Who do you think you are to force feed words from a book that is used to thwart all the sensibilities that save growing limbs from being stuck in positions that serve the roving hands of wild priests.
Who do you think you are to condemn the Blackness of folks with practiced rejection borne out of the competition for primal existence in a world, that will always challenge the supremacy you stole out of desperation and displacement.
Who do you think you are to instruct me on which hands to hold, which lips to kiss, which hole to caress and which eyes to brighten with my presence in the blinding daylight, on the streets of humans.
Who do you think you are to violate my affinity for all things that scold your narrow view into the restlessness of the fear, that erupts when you step into the space that holds the bold vibrancy of my freedom to wear a dress and bangles over a form that you’ve formulated against me.
