poem for skrim

i realize i wrote this a lonnngg way back, say... early october, but never posted it. sorry, skrim. here you go:

"photo of a black woman in the stairwell of the goldsmiths library"

black body
spread out across the bed. all that is visible are
the mahogany brown legs, a
striking contrast against a
bright pink floral dress. the room is dimly lit and
the figure's head has been left out of the photograph.
not important, i guess. lately
when i look at photos i try to
search for the story behind it,
the reason that the artist was inspired to
capture that very moment forever.
i do not see any love in this picture-
instead i see coldness and fatigue.
i cannot see the figure's face and
i wonder if the artist couldn't as well.

there are so many black faces in this place,
many smiling, all of them comforting to me as i
try to navigate my way around this strange city.
so why would they behead this woman,
artificially hang her up on the otherwise bare white walls
of this institution?

give my mother back her face.


---

in other news... my body still hates me.

also, i have seven days left.

also, i am writing a play. i don't know if it's a work of fiction or another childhood confession.

also, i don't want to feel anymore.

that's all.