projected winner: a man's ego

bell hooks was my scripture and beyoncé was my medicine.
the smell of my hair lingered of fruit scented edge control and a week of stale gel. my headphones recited the stationing of the planets and stars. and my mouth didn’t move whenever a man would speak to me. i learned how to ego trip a boy before i learned how to bend over and tie my shoe. i let him feel filled with power because i went to bed knowing that in the board game of love and life, it was only my love that he even had dreams of winning. in the pool of water where he drowns he knows it is only of the anchor of my empathy that would save him. his righteousness and false sense clarity reeked that of a coward. guilt and ignorance coated his skin as cocoa butter and ocean scented perfume coated mine. but i let him sleep thinking he had killed me, and by letting him think that i walked away knowing who really won every time. i pity them. the black boys who ridicule black girls like school children who fell on their face in the middle of a game of tag. i pity them, the black boys born by black mothers shaped and figured the same as the one who they attempted to ridicule— everytime they pointed at me i turned around reflecting the complexion, structure, and wisdom that their mother couldn’t extend. but when the revolution comes it will be led by the daughters, criticized by the men who look down still shackled to the grounds of their own ego… so shi we couldnt save them even if our empathy led hearts wanted us to. the only difference between theirs and the world, they thought that with all the shit they talked that we would save them too. ridicule that.