What is in me?
This glass cannot protect me
from the way the moon’s light strikes my black skin,
like a magic pen.
Fuchsias and lavenders and spruces and teals
Fuchsias and lavenders and spruces and teals
looped around the darkest of skins
bodies in choke-holds
as they search, desperately, for a love
her design
Her dark hand resting on the glass
as she peers into a world
designed for no one like her
Skin as dark as the black night
that wiggles underneath the Manhattan Bridge