Consider it for a second, she said
Existing at many intersections
where your existence is a wound.
See it and know it for yourself.
How is it that my existence is a wound?
my blackness––my body and my flesh––is
perceived as gangrene. necrotic.
to be scraped off.
to reveal a whiter skin.
Living in the wake of slavery,
for here, to be black means to be invisible.
to be closest to death.
and my life exists in hashtags that become archives no sooner than it began.
And my absence is no absence.
And in there,
my lover is a woman,
and for this reason, my prayers must be said in hushed voices.
But if he sees all and he hears all,
Does the symphony of our voice in lovemaking
fall on deaf ears, or is our love, too, not love?
Consider it for a second
what it must be like
to exist in places
where you are invisible
Think it and know it for yourself.