she's gauzed deep in her intricate tales of anonymous protagonists and broken promises gathered in the corners of her eyes and under her fingernails from where she's scratched out her niche in the backs of men stupid enough to sample her fury they only teasing her canal cause aint a man yet long enough to tap that which be wasting away in half hearted notebook fillers and heart felt soliloquies that remind her of masturbating and how it only makes her cry because she just wants these dumb niggas to understand her language
and how
her words be few these days her lungs are too tired to be creative and she's given up selling her complexity but she still writes subliminal passages in between each readily accessible line
articulating where shes been and where shes going consigning her soul and steadily knowing
that it's all but hopeless letting herbs hit with no protection, and no focus and she knows its a conflict of interest but its something about being touched and how
(being blessed with a vivid imagination)
she can make believe these moments of willing surrender into picket fences and pretty babies and reperations and food on the table and love she remembers when it was knuckleheads on the front stoop of her brownstone that had foul mouths but good hearts and were handsome under their bubble coats and- how these niggas now be mostly ugly, and the vividness of that past makes her lose her faith fast
but
i see her and i want to hold her hand tell her that it's still me that wants to be her boy next door her best friend between her sheets of looseleaf on which she been writing all the wrongs she been handed and im scared 'cause i know shes jaded and her skin is dirty from fingerprints of niggas thinkin they made it and im looking like everybody shes ever hated sifting thru ruins of a nuclear reactor decimated, cause-
son, ive loved her - from the moment they tried to rape her innocence into oblivion
it is that war inside me theyve managed to awaken loving the ingeniousness of each glorious misstep shes taken
feigning her naivete and founding empires for the thankless i see her remaining still tired and battered, and believing in nothing skeptical of her own existence a fraction of that which taught me and brought me to this