(from Grayscale, You in Black)
Less like fertile soil and more like battlefield. Black gold, with stocks rising higher and higher everyday. Highly desired, yet grossly overlooked. Where is my ceremony? Why is black twitter not mourning for me? Where are all the socio-political commentators, armchair activists, senators and bloggers to scratch each other’s faces in anger over my death? My funeral march is a rap song. You know the one I’m talking about. With a girl that looks so much like me that her empty smile and even emptier eyes haunt my waking nightmares as I watch her bouncing her bubble butt for this new black with his neck weighed down with costume jewelry. I am canvas splattered with blood and entrails; I am a glossy magazine cover gleaming with the appeal of “Black Girls Rock!”; I am Thursday nights and a boat-like glass of red wine and a billion dollar price on my head for America’s entertainment. I am TV ratings, and BET after midnight, and your babysitter, your ex-girlfriend. I am yo shawdy in the black, swing that ass my way! I am your grandmother’s hands mangled by arthritis but still able to beat you into sheepish submission. I am the headline that never made it to print. I am all and none of these things. Mostly, I’m just scared that I could vanish and you would not notice.