Rotting sugar cane

My voice pushes against
the air within my lungs, and
I'm reminded that 21%
of oxygen simply isn't
enough to sustain breath.

Paying no mind to how others
might misconstrue - dig and
analyze the stolen artifacts before
them, theft of my truth,
I allow the fire from my
steps to fuel the swaying
of my hips and occupy the space
I stand in, a luxury womyn
of sabor will recognize.

A lioness, I loosen my dark
mane - my heroine's cape
cascading down my back. I spin
around, flex muscular thighs, and
remove the shawl shielding
my shoulders and my neck:
my jugular exposed.

He offered me a drink and
I linger, intrigued with
the pintas on his shoulders, his
skin cor de café, and his
scent of figs and lilies. An
enchanting bi-product of
intense miscegenation.

When he later draped an arm 

around my waist, I ignored

the pinching of my shoulder
blades and distractedly
inhaled the scent of

water lilies. 

On the dance floor, we bobbed.
Always in sync, and still I cringed
when he called me beautiful,
an accusation I'd grown both
tired of and accustomed
to, but on we swooned.

He wrapped his arm around
my waist pulling with enough
force to make me stumble into
him, the space between our
bodies gone. Instead of
flowers, I smelled the rotting
fermentation of sugar cane.

I'd forgotten how easily
men physically overpower
me. One grip tight around my
wrist, pulling my stiff arm around
his neck, he pinned against a
wall, and I looked on for rescue
that never came. Detaching

from my body as fingertips clumsily

pressed down my sides: over my
hip, lingering at the seem of
my underwear, pulling up my dress.

Embarrassed and weak, I pried
insistent claws away as he

shouted drunkenly about the
quality of the Brazilian ass,
as if to describe the quality of
meat, and I'm reminded
that to be a Latinx is to have
your skin defiled, and
still be expected to dance.

At war with myself

"When we observe a woman who seems hostile and fiercely independent some of the time but passive, dependent and feminine on other occasions, our reducing valve usually makes us choose between the two syndromes. We decide that one pattern is in service of the other, or that both are in the service of a third motive. 

She must be a really castrating lady with a facade of passivity—or perhaps she is a warm, passive-dependent woman with a surface defense of aggressiveness.

But perhaps nature is bigger than our concepts and it is possible for the lady to be a hostile, fiercely independent, passive, dependent, feminine, aggressive, warm, castrating person all-in-one.

Of course which of these she is at any particular moment would not be random or capricious—it would depend on who she is with, when, how, and much, much more. But each of these aspects of her self may be a quite genuine and real aspect of her total being."

Walter Mischel, psychologist, as quoted in Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point (emphasis added) 

I don't want to change the world

I used to hold the earth between the palms of my hands and squint. The corner of my nostril curling upwards in disgust, reacting to a foul smell in the air - pollution emitting from the gruesome thing before me.

What a senseless place, I thought then, and scrutinized it between my fingers...poking and prodding, shaking my head from side to side and dripping with condescending arrogance. If only they could see what I see. That would be enough.

Ah, but I was childish and naive.

No, I don't want to change the world.

I used to call them to follow me. Just listen, I cried impatiently... 

Just see the way I see. I thought, if only they would understand my infallible command.

But no, not anymore. I don't want to change the world.

No, not anymore.

I bounced the thing up and down, tossed it aside, picked it back, placed gently on a mantlepiece...and screamed, what are these blemishes I see?

Tired and confused, forgotten... the thought occurred to me:

No, no more.

I don't want to change the world.