Poems

My thin, dark almond eyes, my thick, natural hair, the birthmarks trailing down my back, the stubbornness lodged inside me, the way I ignite at the slightest spark. They say I’m just like him. Is being my father’s daughter Why am I cast as the villain? The problem child pastors prayed over? The girl who left the man she loved for thoughts she invented in her own head? Am I my father’s daughter because, once betrayed, I turn weakness into a weapon? Because I’m impulsive? Becau

I’ll quietly yearn for you.
 I’ll set you free out loud, I’ll bottle the ache in my chest,
 push it deep inside me,
 Praying one day
I can release it,
 and love you loudly again. Until then, I’ll quietly yearn for you.

The scent of oranges in the rain. The floors of a school bus on a wet day. The grime clinging to a bathtub. The smell and squish of rotting vegetables. The muggy heaviness of the New York subway. The dirt caked on the sole of a shoe. Bird droppings streaked across a car window. That is what you remind me of.

My exterior is the sun, but my interior is the moon. My bronzed skin glows at the faintest touch of light, the blinding star igniting a golden hue. It shines so brightly, you might mistake it for the most prominent star in the sky. But inside, I am as dull as the moon, searching for the right phase a phase where I am finally aligned. There is a darkness I wouldn’t dare to share, a shadow of my own making, known only to me. It plagues my insides, an unrelenting presence I des

As a child, they joked about my small eyes. "Keep your glasses on," they’d shout. These small eyes, a gift from my ancestors, the same eyes that stare back at me in the mirror, the only eyes I’ve ever known. She is dark, like the seed of an ackee. She is small, like an almond. Now, she’s turning yellow. Maybe the whites have had enough. Maybe she’s tired of being the punching bag. Maybe she’s growing weaker. She stays still even when my lips curl into a smile. She shows only