Under blue cotton bedsheets and clandestine curtains,
Beside dimly lit lamps and empty wine bottles,
There I lay, prisoner to your lint-laced promises
and well-stitched


We only meet when the sky is an abysmal black,
When our ebony bodies are inter like stubborn forks
locked in dark drawers.
I lay stiff and awkward and listen when you speak
a familiar tongue of Atlantic Ocean and

Two fingers like silk guns shoot
miss their uncharted target.

So you laugh and whisper
Finders Keepers.
You bite your lip and I bite a tumescent tongue.
I did not know whose blood I was

I lie underneath you, inches above my esteem,
And pressed against your wooden box-sized bed.
I’ve etched a new sky for myself in this four-cornered space,
It’s a distorted portrait of your

I stare at your too-fast clock.
backwards the seconds
I have left before you slip between
the uneven spaces of my chubby fingers and heavy

You swim happily in sacred lake,
As treasured trespasser.
I latch to lint, to promises, to you,
Though your limited love is fleeting.

You feed me assurance in painful increments.
Beautiful for a black girl. Pretty for a fat girl.
And the sweetest one you’ve ever met.
I wonder
Is that your excuse for not loving the whole of me?