Walk

He said
“Ay Yo Shay…Why you walk like that?”
and I paused…..
Back straight,
shoulders lowered and back.
I walk like…..
I walk like I can’t be broken though my cracks are clearly visible
to anyone who dares to look close enough.
Intertwining to weave my history into my skin…
Run your fingers down my forearms,
see if you can feel my sacrifices.
Linger at my wrist and you’ll find scares that resemble those of He
who was nailed and hung from parallel trees.
I’ve been crucified
multiple times,
just in different formations…
Age 18,
arms cuffed behind back.
Faced pushed against hood.
Penalized because the melanin in my skin made me fit the description of guilty.
My skin tone mimics molasses,
which must mean my fingers are sticky.
Age 15,
body pressed against his living room wall.
Right arm locked behind my back.
Left arm pinned to my side by wall,
and his body weight.
Hair gripped tight in fingers.
Head yanked back,
he said that he’d be damned if I left him…
and then he told me he loved me.
Age 8,
body sprawled on concrete.
Arms bound at wrist and held over my head.
Legs spread wide like an upside down crucifix
to unwillingly welcome snakes into my garden of Eden.
And then after he was done,
I was left behind.
Discarded as carelessly as the rag he used to wipe himself off with.
I can still picture it clearly on the floor…
tattered and bloody,
worn and covered in his viscid explosion.
The mirror reflection of my hymen.
“Ay yo Shay, why you stand like that?”
A pillar of defiance,
I stand so I can be knocked down.
Broken,
and rebuilt
so mold me.
Transform me into everything they told me I could never equal up to.
But please,
leave Me pieces of yester Self so I be reminded
that She was always beautiful.
I was worthy…
once.
Before,
I use to walk like I held God’s envy in my womb.
Before,
I use to love Me
who was in love with Self.
But Self broke Me’s heart too many times,
and I couldn’t pick up the pieces
so now I’m choking on pieces of potential self acceptance.
He asked me,
“Ay yo Shay, Why you walk like that?
Always gotta stand off to the side like that,
like you to good to look at people?”
But looking at people makes cracks visible,
and the thing about cracks is…
they have a tendency to be contagious.
So I try to keep mine to myself,
‘cause under pressure,
they stretch,
then they might reach yours,
and the pain gets transferred.
Then your cracks grow longer and branch out,
then those branches spread like trees,
and then everybody ends up broken…
like me.
Looking at people,
usually leads to eye contact,
and eyes are the windows to the soul,
and souls tend to be reflective,
and it should be clear by now…
I don’t really like looking at myself.
So I walk like my feet are tectonic plates.
Slow…but with purpose.
Feet sometimes brushing against each other,
that’s why I stand like mountains.
He kept asking,
and I finally answered.
I walk,
back straight.
Shoulders lowered,
with the bible tattooed on my spine,
and Lucifer’s sin sitting in the dip where my ass meets my back
so that with every step I take,
Hell quakes under me.
An angel walking through a fire pit with scorched wings.
I pulled my own feathers out my back burning
just so I could write the sky a lullaby in the form of lightning…
thunder mimicking my heartbeat.
I walk to set an example.
I walk,
because my grandmother
and mother had to.
I walk,
simply to remind myself…
I still know how to.