who i am, tell me what i see

everyday i lay back and watch tv. but when i go to activate the screen what do i see? i dont see me. in fact i hardly EVER see me. the only way i can see the reflection looking back at me so strong so powerful and not a woman with a terrible attitude smacking lips rolled eyes and a head roll is only on the channels that are labeled: me. even when the channels have my skin written across the names, soaked in my pride, there are still the obscured reflections of who i am. 

what do i see. when i look in the mirror i cant seem to ever create the image of myself for each time it is created it is suddenly destroyed, torn apart. the hurricanes flash through my scull and bang the broken pieces around and leave the ruins there. while i search for the broken pieces, of the mirror of my reflection, the sirens of anger, and angry black woman and of ghetto black girl and of uneducated whore and of big booty hoe scream throught the glass that is trying to be put back together. 


what is a girl to do. what is a girl to say.

what should she say when all she gets is “you are pretty, for a black girl” or “you are really smart, for a black girl” or my favorite one, “i don't see you as black”. ha. then what do you see me as? a human? a real life human girl? funny when you think of human you are taught to think of blonde, brunette, skin so porcelain you are afraid to touch. but funny how all the porcelains and the trans countdown to summer so they can run to the rays that are slowly cooking their lives away.

to look like me.


Look in the mirror, why are you looking for me. why is the lady with 45 wrinkles and a mind of the  60s creating my mirror,  why are the commercials creating my reflections why are the tv shows and movies and every bit around me creating my image.

instead of searching for answers im searching for strength, instead of answers im searching for courage, instead of answers im searching for all the things that create that one, that only,

not the carmel copper tone skin, not the tight curly black clouds, not the meatball eyes of curiosity or the huge lips of word.



the leaves change pigments so quick the last time i remember they were rich as life so green but now they have descended to the ground so brown and dry. its funny how things change within a blink of an eye a flash of a camera a snap of the finger.but.

but the memory stains

you only laugh with a possy. they only laugh with a flock of feather flocking together

te possy builds your esteem as high as the empire state building and when you esteem reaches the final floor the laughter follows with enhanced abs and hiccups.

all for what

you can't look in the mirror, and tell me what i see

you can't reflect my reflection

but i will still wonder when

my reflection with beam the colors, of my soul.



Guide that inspired this poem: 


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