Bitter Short-Chains



paints the scenario of a daughter’s forged approval of her mother’s new found replacement for the loneliness that plagues her bitter and unforgiving heart:


The new man happiness revolves around;

she is temporarily forgetful of her employment as the white people’s pitiful nanny;

the woman who doesn't have any self-preservation now she’s crowned:

Another “struggling single black mother who makes ends meet.


Who even manages to have a (love) life with three kids

somehow manages to wake up every morning semi-grateful she’s not just a “struggling single black mother”, but a “struggling single black mother in America””

That makes a difference!


A mother who emphasizes and preaches the Caribbean girl vs African American girl vs White American girl tradition that in so many years has marked the world as the discriminatory place it is but ought not to be:


“You have be better than them. You have act proper. I taught you manners. When I was your age, my mother taught me all that I know because she knew I would need it in this world. In America, the white people don't act like the black people do and that's because black people like to flaunt what they don't have. Don't be like them. You've changed.”


Picture the deep frowns

Gut-wrenching, soul-clutching, ground-shaking cries echo through four hollow, cement walls

Enslavement to grief;

Grief overflowing


Soft, joyful noise, wanted but not needed gifts that costs way too much money, but it's Christmas so why hold back?

Unaware of the bloodshed, the guts that were spilled like a present neatly wrapped; a big shiny bow, ripped apart from the outside to get to what's inside.


Jingles can’t travel the distance to extinguish the pain

The indecisive culpability led me to wonder:

If I had texted a “Merry Christmas! Stay home tonight and skype?”


If I hadn't been laughing, been joyful;

If my mother had whole-heartedly accepted being just a “mother”;

If I hadn't thought so selfishly;

If I hadn't taken advantage of my privilege as an Afro-Caribbean girl who lived in low class



If our savior's birthday wasn’t stained with rose red blood with cut edges remained for a soul.

Just maybe if...


This poem is about: 
My family
My country
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 


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