It has taken shape in the back of my mind, that moving freely as a black lesbian loving other women of color, is an act of rebellion.
We are the forgotten ones. The mules of the world. The bodies for which white women write their narratives against. Mirrors. Perverse inversions of womanhood. Fleeting cultural experiences. Backgrounds.
There are no amber alerts for brown bodies gone missing. No righteous indignation. Our parts are purposed for sexual amusement and exploitation. Take the money and run.
They scar our flesh, then shame us for our tears. Mock our anger. Tell us our lives are of little value.
My love for you will start a revolution.
Speaking you. Naming you. Indulging you is a simple act of treason.
I reach out to take off your mask. Stretch against my walls. Push out. Take up space. I will worship you, forever.
In me, find all those things denied to you. Personhood. Wholeness. Agency.
The merging of consciousness. Be not afraid of the gaze, for I am of you.
I will hold you
Create insubordination between your thighs.