my story didn’t matter
not enough drama
in my trauma to cause chatter + tweets
on pages + screens
featuring me
as myself doing basic things
basically
i dealt with dealing
+ healing alone

my story was an existential repeat
a carbon copied echo from recycled history
of a black. girl. losing. magic
weighing her struggles
against world hunger + sexual abuse
feeling bad for feeling sad
about the non-life-threatening things
she’d been through

my story was concealed + neatly tucked
was never touched
but constantly disappointed
psychologically hijacked
in a chokehold with “perfect” performance
leaving marks mostly invisible + hard to see
you’d need cognitive microscope to know
how little things affect me
in big ways

like the smell of cologne
on good days
pulling up memories of having a father + being a kid
but underneath that same aroma
is the stench of abandonment
my story was a consecrated contradiction
where sanctuaries feel like gravy, poured on thick
to make addicts look like pastors
+ moving forward going backwards
seers looking away, women learning their place
i saw quiet tolerant faith
where “meek and lowly” meant holy
+ a greater chance of being chosen
by a man and the system that needed me broken
left me choking on holiness
as a hostage in mother’s dream
stuck in scenes of daddy’s nightmare
where i couldn’t scream
where stories were held to save face
buried under his mercy + grace

it was biblical
catch me at church, it’s a miracle
‘cause my deepest distress consistently came
from someone spiritual
my story was a “lose-win”
cause my bruises; they blend in
concealing ideations of not being
important enough for view
convincing me to convince myself
to formulate a rule
not to share the details
of a story that couldn’t matter
it was common, covered, and confusing
leaving my heart + mouth closed
my purpose inactive
making silence attractive

my story had chains + cages
with all sorts of people
a varying assortment of places
and more than enough pages
that i didn’t write
my story had a life
of its own, that i lived in third person
watching things happen to me
but i wonder what my story could be
if i wrote it
with my plot + my twists
if I told it
forgetting about the pages
of any other story but mine
until it matters