no nigga knows the secret to self-crucifixion

better than himself ● when Black boy here tug-a-wars

with masculinity ● he says hem that lil witch up ● spool her in

cotton gin ● each time that nigga tries to be Brandy ● spiraling like

he owned the smoky voice ● plaits pyrotechnic-ing ● but he/she/we

is a boy ● that boy know better than to let slip show ● queening

through a room ● as if chimes sway from his forehead to her

mystical catwalk ● to light harmonies of Top of the World

he shouts ain’t no new day for Black gays ● stab a bobby

pin through the illusion, unfasten the penalty ● mummify

him-her in micro-braids ● snatch up ● the tiniest strands

 

●

 

tighter than Ethiopian-sewn vagina ● each knot a welded

compound ● scorching grilled stripe for ● every whirl every

Brokenhearted hum in the fan ● under between peoples’ radar

begin at base ● around her ankles ● bind that witch ● he knows the

basting stitch to death because he never saw how to exist with himself

he say go tougher than twisted tree roots ● hogtie for gliding across the floor

like it’s the ball in Rodgers & Hammerstein's Cinderella, letting his aura be

coiled by a man ● Lords knows she-he’s already a man ● bowline ● bound

him by the knees stiff enough to tug the Clotilda to shore ● inflamed

bondage he pleads don’t let each thread ● be a hug that he needs

to unravel to let that Moesha girl glow instead ● encircle

until she-he’s a midnight merry-go-round ● cycloned

into particles to blur this Angel in Disguise he secretly

is ● believe ● trans-locking this witch ● is much

more melodic than the wiry truth

 

●

 

he says taunt line hitch baby doll twist ● harder

than a chain fence ● oh, he got to carrick bend ● for

Sitting up in his Room dripping in his diary about being

screwed by Ohagi ● engrain her ● fuse with the next follicle

a thorn-grip crown around her head ● like Christ ● crotchet loose

ends until she’s unconscious ● no wind-molecule barricading in ● only

this raging shame is breed by kinfolk ● Black kin ● their long-roped history

of having a history roped with hurt ● his supposed external peace yet watch

his breathing booming ● this helix body bag ● he wants out so bad instead

he says buckle up ● abide lil witch ● the little boy in him ● he needs to

abide by the oath the feigned man in him ● is bound to be ● help

him/me/she that boy-been looking for solace in locked maze

since I Wanna Be Down days ● Lord, let it hail in

Double Platinum keys ● unstring him please

 

●

 

do not Nubian knot him to compressed licorice

for all the split seconds he rebelled reckless ● or fell

stamina begging to burst like busted pillow of rainbow feathers

hell, why does Black boy submit so well ● he says super seal until you

slaughter his daydream of Brandy & her braids on him ● whirling like

windmill slicing the air ● he says he can’t be a colossal wrench

clenched into a tall updo ● he has to be ● a bloody, black

head-harness ● a single strand of him cannot bungee

for that witch ● who may conjure up courage

to finally sing for consent from himself

to untuck and feed ● what he’s been

killing ● and at last tumble out

of tangled locks ● ride them

like a tree swing