He was the lost one,and I was the lighthouse.The signpost in the Sahara.The smoke signal skyward.Existing to guidefrom wreckage or ruin,or else an exquisite waste.
He’s always been the lost one.
I told him I could no longercarry him and his woesWhen he couldn’t begin to understand mine.
I said “my shoulders are pressed lowwith my own heaviness and any thing more…
Eating fruit from the treeof anxiety that has taken root,laden in my bellyis easy.
The Life of the Black Introvert
I grew up in an upper-middle class white town. My family was the only black family on my street and I was the only black girl in all of my…