I skimmed past her preface;
dined over her table of contents
held covert to the casual customers,
who sought to buy her
for the same price the media
would have them believe she’s worth:
an eyeful of pleasure,
stitched lips,
bound hands,
and shackled intellect,
but her barcode of eyelashes
would ring up for so much more.

I bookmarked her appendix,
as she relayed her first chapter
of Genesis to me
I witnessed her creation.
Man’s rib
woven into the pages of her being
to declare her as his equal;
and yet, somehow
hers remind me of
the ribs of the slave ship
she painted with her
broken, bleeding dreams,
her own Sistine ceiling;
that brought her here,
to the land of the free
home of the slaves.
Her soul was the anchor
that never left port,
where she aborted her childhood
only to give birth
to a phantom of a life
she’d die to have.

And here she sits before me,
wearing her self-esteem
over her eyes,
as the contacts that betray her;
and her dignity
couldn’t skirt her legs any shorter
as she sacrifices her calves
to be grazed upon.

And I wish I could tell her
to refuse the cocktail of lies
the media branded within her eyelids,
or whisper in her ear
and hope that she hears
her ancestral blood still flowing
in her nostalgic thoughts
of home and remembers
that she once reigned as queen
in His story,
now long forgotten…

2 thoughts on “Reflecting

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