Pieces of my me,littered about this apartment,
seemingly organized into piles
of too little, too much and other
offending categories.
My me,
there! Sprinkled about
like dirty laundry, soiled
to the point behind tide
and rolled up as a public display
of what we’re not going to do.
My me,
circumcised and misread,
from Kenta to Tobi,
as scripts performed by and from
men before my time,
and thrust around my neck
and soul, because there is not yet
proof of my difference,
my me,
Is a collection of assertions and allegations,
now.
My me,
looks so lost,
from the vantage point of
naked flesh,
coated in Shea and washed in
black soap,
house smudged
but a spell separates
flesh from
my me,
has been Guantanamo’d
no trial is necessary. The evidence
Is in pieces
And we have a
learned Judge.
-Partial Justice
