In the midst of the eyes of many storms,
I used to rain dance away the trauma,
side-step from soliloquy, because I
And although the downpour was
audible to anyone who would listen, I
saved face by misrepresenting it as
downplayed drizzle, preferring how poetic it could of sounded.
In the heat of a heat wave, we can strip away the excess, tangible and intangible, soaked clothes can't rep brands I still can't afford, anyhow. The sun burn has
exposed these constellations of freckles we used to think we could connect the dots to in one sitting.
The cells are as abnormal or as normal as changing moods, depending on who you ask, but I'm
When we succumb to triple digits, will the wind from the way you used to spin me, find us? Will it whisper somethings into our aching ears, promises of better times?
Will it remind us that we survived
wind storms in the Mohave Desert and
tornadic skies frayed and free-styling upon fields too close to the sea level to protect us, in skies as starless as promise of our country's democracy?
Will it dress up the salsa-spin to appeal to the
airs I used to carry, when I
drifted away from myself?
Or will it be rhythmic and raw and healing, drum beat, after bass solo, acoustic and acrostic, sounding out who I am beneath the attempts to fit in and find peace? Will it be as censored as I am? Or as authentic as you are? Will it reveal who we are beneath the struggle?
Will it unearth us?