I may have to take the veins from the side of your neck, empty out the contents and use them for ink to write back to you.
I’m one forced smile away from spitting in your face.
Inaccessible. Grant me access to your work. Grant me access to yourself. Grant me access I’m entitled to access grant me access to what I’m entitled to–
Access means your lifeless hands are attracted to the warm breath lingering around my half-open mouth. You want to be able to press down unhindered, until I cough and struggle and grow still.
I’m one forced smile away from spitting in your face, one clenched fist away from leaving the chipped corners of my own nails buried in the skin on my arms.
And you…are not safe just because what I meant to say passed over your head and dumped a bucket of seawater over your shoulders. You are straining against the complicated, non-linear, who do you think you are to do this, other writers do this well but who do you think you are to do something this complicated, non-linear lines of prose and verse I am wrapping around your upper arms to interrupt your blood flow.
You are broiling in the steam of your frustration, how dare you I demand access how dare you have no right to deny me what has always been mine.
This is disjointed and nonsensical, try again.
Again I will tell you have no idea what any of this means because my expanse is too wide to fold into the narrow channel of your understanding again I will tell you are not entitled to any more than I am willing to give again…
(Image: Taken by the loveliest of lovelies, Claytia Gonsalves, at the National Museuem of African Art in DC. Spring 2015.)