I’m not torn, I know where my heart lies
i know where the inequity resides
of course i could choose to sit by myself, enjoy my company most
not need that musk smell drifting into my nostrils
but i don’t like me that much; i ain’t that damn interesting
him over here has the wet finger that turns the pages of my poetry book, doesn’t even need a catalog to browse my library
while homebody over there is here, when he’s not
metaphorically he walks me to class and carries the weight of my bookload
in his hands
he offers me smooth conversation and a 2nd opinion
when the peanut gallery just won’t do
he sits with me in the middle of the night to talk about genocide in Darfur
and the greatest r&b artists of all time
but my baby love, he knows what i’m thinking before i do, maps out my sentences
and puts clever phrases together for me,
manipulates and infiltrates my thought process, creates conversations with himself through me
my baby love, he dissolves my condidtions with his tears, lets me empty
my runoff into his tributary
and just pours that shit over a bed of greens
but homebody over in the corner is there for me,
there with me, speaking different languages to me in my sleep
so i wake up with an accent
he kisses my forehad with that eroticism only somebody who doesn’t love you
can give you
massages my back so good-takes away the pain with those cinderblock hands
then makes it hurt again after 2 hours of bending me over,
after 45 minutes of nibbling my honey button,
after 3 minutes 10 seconds 2.59 nanoseconds of holding my thighs down while
i form a huge wet spot on those sheets i just changed
but my sweetie pie doesn’t ever need to press my legs down into the mattress
because he knows as well as i do that i ain’t going no damn where
my sweetie pie can make love to me like a pianist to his keys
he can tickle my blackness and make me want to spew ivory
he makes me want to pluck every hair from my head and sew them together
as a blanket to keep him warm against the cold of my actions
he makes me want to hate myself so i can have more love to give him
he makes me want to want him, makes me write his name over and over
in the back of my notebook, leaving no room for British literature scribbles
homeboy over there sends me text messages detailing what he plans to do to me
makes them so long we spill over into next month’s plan
charges my credit card 5 cents and heart 5 cents every time he presses OK
and i respond with a simple “let’s do this”
homeboy takes me in the back of the auditorium
pulls out before we’re forced to accept responsibility
arches my back for me, if i become too weak
drops me in a puddle of worries and brushes his shoulders off
but my honey dip dries me off and gets me wet again
drowns me in a bucket filled with his eye water
there’s no dropping two tears in his bucket, fuck it
because my guilt is an albatross, swinging from my neck
dragging me, ragging me on, pulling on the consciousness of my conscience
i’m not torn, I know where my heart lies
but i’m too selfish to burn the house where inequity resides


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