i’m an alcoholic. a coke head. an aborter. bipolar and on a slight sedative. i’m jealous of ways
other’s brilliance makes me feel small. i’m passive with peace and love. i’m distributable and
often diabolical. i’m dying. i’ve died a million deaths in these last two sentences. i repent and
leave space for repugnance. i’m often repulsed. i edit your grammar in my mind and save words
in my back pocket. i date debaters and hate their communication skills. i speak in poems on
purpose. lest my haste scrambles hate. i’m guarded. i’m unraveling a tongue i wasn’t born with.
and i detest the people that have placed it here. i carry hate i have forgiven and feel i must stand
my ground. i often feel ungrounded. i don’t remember the day i was born and i say i’m immortal.
i crave the color of blood and am venomous. my love stings through silence and i never look
back. i’ve looked back before and have regrets. i have regrets that i refuse to nurture. so i choose
my nature. i am meant to be a sore woman. full of rage and distasteful demeanors. i root for the
girls in the bonnets and spongebob pajamas. takis coating their tips and 1b sitting on the roofs of
their hot. i root for the girls of spice. with medicine cabinets in their bedroom and available for
anyone to pull up with a bottle. i’ve battled more animosity in my spirit than the city does with
its architecture. i’m often hostile. i feel like the bad guy and don’t know how to make space for
good. sure i believe in it, but good? good? that’s a spell. i make space for the great even when i
feel cursed. i’m always ahead of time and often feel unappreciated. how many poets wings have i
opened? how much does a daughter have to honor a parent, that reminds them of their ability to
have a choice. i choose to be here. even when the years of my refusal have led me closer to god,
they refuse to let me meet them. damn god, i think we would be really cool. i think we would
lock in with each other and find ourselves swished around a barstool. have you ever seen an
angel roll a cigarette on the spot? let me show you! is you is or is you aint my baby, i say to the
man/lady in my mind, who i kiss on my forearm. they are an enchanted lover and completely
taken by me. they know me for more than i am worth and i believe them. they say i am more
than my previous works and i say what am i without my poems. i am a runaway bride who left
her momma at 16. i miss my momma and cant look her in her eyes. i promise im way more
submissive then i give off. and whats crazy is yall will love me for this. you will think i am so
pure but babe, i am full of rage. a hypocrite you will call me after this poem. a poser. a shame
thrower. the harmful system you have felt misled by all these years. goddammit! i’m still a vixen.
a sexpot they made at 19. hear me roar! bitch i’m mad. and i cant keep it in, but look how i have
arrived. to the party with a previous punctuality problem. i’m never late. they’re simply early and
my bus card doesn’t expire for another 8 hours. so since were all here, lets capture this moment.
leave a comment.
welcome back.
E’mon Lauren is a poet, writer, performer, and educator from Chicago’s West Side, and the city’s first Youth Poet Laureate. She is the author of Commando (Haymarket Books) and a contributor to The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 2: Black Girl Magic. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Sixty Inches From Center, South Side Weekly, and The Saartjie Journal, and her work has been featured in Vogue and the Chicago Tribune. Rooted in Hood Womanism — centering Black femme life from Chicago’s West and South Sides — she directs artistic programming at the #LetUsBreathe Collective and founded BlkHoneyBun Productions.
