I have been trying to stay away from the news, the endless trauma reel of Black life being taken senselessly.
I had to turn my camera off in a Zoom staff meeting because I saw I was beginning to cry when a friend spoke about his lady’s fear for his Black body.
It reminded me of all the times my flesh, volcanic in its tremor, quaked for my love.
The times where I wanted to dig my fingernails into his arms, lock my thighs around his torso so he couldn’t leave and expose himself to a world not nearly good enough for him.
My breasts swell and ache.
My face grows warm.
My pulse wants to free itself from my body and pound on concrete, dirt.
This is me.
This is me being alive right now.