Honestly

I think they said
we look good together;
wasn’t sure if it was in reference to:
our handmedown,
mismatched overalls that we wore as skin,
your long and layered
my short and wavy hair,
or that our hands held
could almost pass for the flyest jordans,
with your lighter
laced-like fingers gripped around mine;
so I’m
still not sure
if I should be offended or not.

I wish
I could believe them,
nod in agreement
like a bobblehead,
bouyant on waves of optimism,
but the pessimist in me
still holds grudges.

Honestly,
your compliments sometimes
reminds me of the days when
your ancestors declared it sin
to look upon a woman
shades lighter than my palms;
when they would’ve
bound our hands,
noose us on trees
as they tried to make
our whole race
Autumn like leaves,
but this is Spring
and there’ll be no Winter
to wither our love.

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