When Barbie Was Ignored

She had everything they said I needed to be beautiful:
A waist the size of my wrist,
hair as yellow as the sun on the warmest day
and eyes that matched the greens of tourist seas.

Lily asked to be my friend.
I didn’t understand her desire to be near me,
however,
I allowed her into my mirror,
just like that.

One day, we walked into a pizza shop and
the man with the tanned skin and handsome smile
took one look at me and said,
“I love your eyes.”
Lily replied: “Thank you.”
“Not you, your friend” said Mr. Pizza Man with certainty.
Lily smiled awkwardly and decided that she would pay for both pizzas,
hers and mine.

As we walked back to work, greasy paper bag in hand,
dripping with the oils of the tanned man,
Lily looked at me and said:
“I never noticed your eyes before…”
I looked at my reflection in the car window and
admired the beauty of my big, dark, brown eyes,
not the color of the sea, but the color of my skin.

A Comb and A Conscience

it happened today when my comb told me that Europe was a liar. i questioned why, but my comb didn’t answer because it was stuck in the trenches of my curls.

i submissively replied:

i want to be a kettle so i can continue to be called black and i want your facts to be the truth before you encounter my youth.

spread me wide and high like a neo-negro with tough hair and dark knuckles that i use to knead cowrie shells and plantains.

defame me but you can never claim me as yours and the chores of my ancestors will keep me above you.

i don't love you or the fact that my mirror is tainted with the spit of your colonial blood that haunts my nose.

you cannot construe me or confuse me with colors, because mine is too dark for you to embark upon.

every time you tell me a lie, I learn the truth about myself so i thank you for propaganda.

i will continue to wear it, this skin, boldly like a blanket you often use to cover the clouds in this cold region. i want to go back to Black...

my comb looked at me and smiled, inherently proud of my practice for the upcoming parade.

The Abortion

Murder isn’t usually planned in cases like these. After all, the child was conceived while making love on a dirty street corner infested with crack vials and hood dreams. She wanted to love this Thing inside of her who she didn’t know, but the sound of police sirens and used syringes were more appealing. One day, she walked into a free clinic with walls that were not White. They stuck a vacuum inside of the Thing that she didn’t know, that she would never know, and sucked it up into a Ghetto abyss. And just like that, she was back on the corner, where the Thing was concocted.

Cigarette Woman

She often smoked a cigarette after she came
(after fucking that is).
She loved to see the smoke slide out of her mouth
spreading itself onto the warm body she devoured
(on top, of course).
There would be silence combined with the smell of smoke
in the tiny bedroom, cramped with expensive shoes
and thin walls.

He liked to see her smoke. It made him want more of
her, on top.
She knew what he liked and this pleased her.
As she inhaled the toxic tobacco,
her head continued to spin a spinster’s tale
where women like her ended up street side,
waiting for rides that let her ride a reverie.
They thought she was lost.
She knew she was found.
But. This. Was. Only. A. Dream.

It was almost done, her cigarette,
which the orange line indicated.
She looked down, took one last puff,
and buckled up for another journey.

© Crystal Belle

Hate Don't Rest on Sundays

hate don’t rest on sundays
in fact on sunday is when hate is most holy
crashing into crazies on church floors
chaos on sabbath is hate’s bliss
ignorance and divisiveness
dismissive to souls of consciousness
love is our weapon against hate’s fist
now you say my skin makes you scared
when really it is the tears you packed away in your pain
that makes you feign love
our melanin, first in eden’s garden
to hate our hue is to hate those that came before you
you are me, but too blind to see reality
and for this reason i will leave you where you started
afraid of the power of four letters
with nothing left to do but chew colors
hate don’t rest on sundays
let the church say…amen
to the men who don’t wear their color like badges
or use isms like snatches of stolen sugar from slave plantations

© Crystal Belle and Speaks Beliefs, 2009. All rights reserved

Rape

You stole my language without the
consent of my conscience.
And then you took my pride without the
permission of my power.
Yet still, I emulate you.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror,
I reject all of you that has infiltrated
me,
but still you flow through, like the Atlantic.

I walk down the street with a blindfold
just so I can ignore your visage
that permeates the newsstands and the News,
but you can’t see me anyway.

I cannot live among you
despite my (over)qualifications
which means I will never have half and half
in my coffee from the corner store,
but you can and you always will.

Neighborhoods even change because of you.
Suddenly the air becomes easier to inhale,
the streets less littered upon,
and the food as fresh as stolen fruit.

I cringe because I am cuffed by your existence,
forcing me to wish you could disappear
just like my language did
so long ago.


© Crystal Belle

Advice for Men

     If you are in love, it is best to kill your lover before She kills you. Death will eventually do you part, but her decisions will do the talking, whether she is aware or not. Hold her hand. Call her cute. Label her lovely. Do all of the things your mother never taught you. Kill her with sugar before she kills you with salt. Sometimes lie to her to make her happy so she can believe you when you finally tell the truth.

Say things like:

     “Tell me a story before I sleep.”

     “Don’t wear makeup, it makes you unattractive.”

     She will listen. She will love you. She will have sex with you and slaughter babies for you. And when it’s all said and done, she will kill you with her smile.

 

© Crystal Belle