I’m not in my feelings. I promise,
because if I was, you would most assuredly
know that you’re presence is
a constant irritant to my soul.
My psyche compares the timbre
of your voice to the sound of faces
into ice cold
for truths that you already know
but could never handle
and desiring absolution
from/between my gasps for air.
But I won’t.
I’m not in my feelings.
If I were in my feelings I would tell you.
I would let you know that your very
presence is an act of armed
and i’m still looking for
that smile you stole when
your lips first parted and the venom
spilled. But I can’t tell you that.
Then you’d just think I was in my feelings
and mistake my articulation of self and reality as some
verification of weakness or your ability to read
or be relevant
and I can’t have that.
Truth reigns supreme on my tongue like the
fiery after-taste of habanero peppers
honesty and delivered in a
bouquet of blaqueerealness
and then boo,
you’d be in your feelings.
My words could kill.
The light is bright and
I’d hate to see your essence peel
and flake away in the presence of my
Believe when I say I’m not in my feelings.
But I do converse with them.
And if you’re no careful,
you might just find yourself in the caldron
of my feelings and honey,
you can’t handle this kitchen.
So fall back. Fix your fuckery and take your
seat at the floor of truth while mercy
is still in supply.
My feelings are here. They give no fucks and they see you and
they are eager to read in a multilingual,
Pray child, that I never