it’s raining at seven thirty dark. i’m crying in public at my pwi and
all you can do is stare.
the street lights reflect off the sleek asphalt
and slick oil,
a mother and her children idle nearby,
a bike nearly runs over your foot,
and all you can do is stare.
i cried in public at church once
and my mother cried with me.
singing something divine
stomping her gospel feet
under a devoted god spell
fanning herself with a damp tissue.
and jesus cried with me
loved my water so much that he laid me back in my puddle
and deemed the salt something holy.
i cried in public at a bookstore once
and they offered me a story.
the fiction shared my burden but
it didn’t speak.
i made it’s ink bleed
a dripping noun left to dry
a tear trapped in the spine
a hard cover turned soggy.
i cried in public on the moon once
surrounded by a galaxy as black as me
surrounded by stars made from collided everythings.
my tears fell up
returning to my pupils,
they fell up
pixels of a rainbow,
fell up
remembering the last time they were truly weightless,
something like an elderly dandelion,
a droughted womb,
a fertile afrofuture.
yet, for some reason
when i cry in public at my pwi
all you can do is stare.
as if your paying me attention
is paying reparations,
as if my tears mean i am melting,
mean i am made of the same
shit as you,
mean i am.
and that’s a threat,
and that’s a promise.
