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.