On Edges

Tracing the outlines of this edge,

I peruse the overlays of memories and

unfinished conversations over,

too many empty glasses-

numbness seeks response and yet,

the edge brings echos of safety,

carrying melancholy in a basket of

chronicles that pay tribute to the fallen

women that betrayed the path of freedom;

too soon and leaving many sisters

behind.

The edge beckons still,

mirroring dreams that picture the place where pain and ease

converse and

make love.

You were beautiful before they told you

You were beautiful before they told you.
Before they molded you into the temple of their becomings.
All you see now is a price on your soul.
But please take a moment to realize,
that the broken pieces are not a mess.
And as the sun falls into meditation;
as it makes intercourse with the moon,
translating the words pressed over your heart,
into a melody we never thought to listen to-
You should hold tight to the webs of faith set before you.

You were beautiful before they told you.
Your blackness is a narrative few will choose to understand.
It is not an apology nor a monologue.
The beauty of your kinks and locks in conversation with the curve of your breast,
Requires a special appreciation.
So do not despair,
when you are sold below the price of beauty,
on a market which places perfection as a necessity.

You were beautiful before they told you.
You are not an idea nor a single thought but rather a discourse of many colors.
I could tell you this until the end of time.
But do you see it?
You must resist the desire to desist from breaking free.
These chains that print self-loathing over the bridges of your ancestry,
Have blinded you.
And now the shadows in your eyes,
make it impossible-
for you to feel the sunshine,
dancing under the soles of your feet.