Me, Undone

They weep. These souls. In bathroom stalls. They walk. They move. They brood and hover. Hang regret like winter coats. They reach out to touch. Opening dry mouths in want so crushing. They live in the unseen. Watch us as we make our beds. Comb our hair. Make love. They come and go. Mark dust in doorframes. They know what we fear. Mumble to themselves of our pettiness, our egos, our need for control. How we push each other away. The cowardice. The hollow desperation. They ache. I returned to find a rose with a note on my pillow. It read, "Nothing else matters. Love."

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. But 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 ...

Love at first sight.

And when I die, my body will be like cartography. The chafing of my pelvis, of loves come and gone. Lines strung across my face, the laughter, and always the darkness. The arches of my feet will tell of how well I’ve carried. A survey of my hands, revealing bodies held close and long. The shifting of these bones will bear witness to the ache. Skin mounted across muscle, of fear, and of savage courage. And when they come for my heart, like the negro spiritual, it will “tell the story...” of love. Of unimaginable love--overwhelming and bending this body’s riverbanks.

I saw the X-men prequel a few weeks ago and I have been unable to let it go. I left the movie feeling an eerie connection to Mystique's character. She is a mutant so agonizingly human, hiding in plain sight. Like Mystique, I began morphing to survive. It’s a learned sport. As a little girl, I became whatever I was needed to be. Silent. Self-sufficient. Un-needy. The keeper of secrets. I adapted quickly and ferociously, lest I be caught dead. And then there was the move to private school. I shifted into the black girl who “talked and acted white.” Traded my Boys II Men and SWV cassette tapes for Dave Matthews Band and Phish. Packed my bag with turkey sandwiches and baby carrots. I was the agreeable token black student. In college, the masking continued by kissing boys, and eventually marrying one in my early twenties. I hid my love for women with Bible verses. I was the loving wife. The righteous Christian sister. I foolishly thought that in my coming out and move to a m...

Anyone can tell you that after occupation comes rebellion. Once now, the insurgency grows. First, a few futile attempts. Then, indomitable chaos. You began the invasion with kind sentiments and gestures. Lining her tongue with your words. Giving her new thoughts, one by one. Taking her god from the mantle and replacing it with your image. Now she knows she must rid herself of you. For good. See her walking down the street with metal and acid taped neatly beneath her purple sundress.

These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light. These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely. These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in. These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.