I used to believe that I wasn't enough.
I had been so convinced by this intersectionality
we call "black"
that my kind of coffee
had too much cream
and way too much sugar,
but, as long as I had my chicken on the side,
I was okay.
The undercurrent of "too this" or "almost that"
unsettled my foundation at every church event,
every function, every meeting
until I didn't expect any balance in my life;
I expected waves.
And I hid behind the power of the parable,
lying in between your truth and my life,
wondering if anyone was really listening
or if they clapped so I would be done.
And the pain erupted in conversations
I never, ever intended to have,
like those shoes that I bought and still haven't worn,
b/c volcanoes take years
to bleed.
And I still don't know that my life,
the empirical cycles
collected
crunched
and crucified,
is enough!
Who are they,
looking in my cup,
yet again,
like they deserve a sip,
staring at the end of their noses and asking me for a tissue?
I don't have time to catch your drips.
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