Loss Luggage

Emotional walls

seemingly impenetrable –

exceedingly tall

built of broken promises

fortified with distrust,

graffiti covered in guys lies

and a disgust

that marred her beauty

with lost hope

that made her eyes roll

at times when I spoke

to that invisible hand

she held out in front of her face.

So often looking at me

like some others do our race

as if I represented

all black men in that moment.

Game-facing me down

like an unworthy opponent

known to cheat.

Disreputable. Weak

in both character and credibility…

replete

with every failing

she ever encountered

in boys disguised as men

whose only interest was to mount her.

 

“I…AM NOT…THEM,”

I tried to send her through telepathy.

Wishing she had a sixth sense

that could connect with me,

and let her see

my purity of intention –

that it might crack

her hardened shell so her retention

of hard feelings might begin

to seep through it like fluid.

That, given the occasion,

I would rise to it

and prove this assertion:

“I…AM NOT…THEM.”

I am singular. A person

extruded by a Queen Mother.

Forged into manhood

by the strong brother

seated on the throne beside her,

annealing me in their love’s fire

that my mettle might be tested

but not bested.

In me the fruit of their labor

is reflected

in how all who get to know me

are respected –

Man and woman, alike.

 

Apparently unfamiliar

with the sight,

she didn’t recognize

a man raised right.

She had no compass.

Sure it’s possible

I’m not her type

and she did not want this,

but her eyes told otherwise.

They held contempt

not disregard.

She’d cut her eyes at me so hard

if they were knives

they’d leave deep scars

in my soft tissue

if I had low self-esteem issues.

But she kept me around

for a reason.

So, I guess she found

something pleasing

about my presence

even at arms length.

Calling me “friend,”

when I was little more

than an acquaintance –

a step above a phone number

with a date stamp.

But somehow close enough

to behave stank when

she observed

other women’s overtures.

And even though I found that bull

so absurd,

I still dig her.

I understand how her track record

with these s

makes her gun shy…

apprehensive that one guy

can be any different from the last.

Careful with her heart

and values it more than her ass.

Far from perfect,

but someone she can work with

to help seal her past

and reveal her tomorrow’s.

Possibilities seem so vast.

I just need her to leave those bags

and walk away from them with me.

 

- HymnAgen