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Emotional walls
seemingly impenetrable –
exceedingly tall
built of broken promises
fortified with distrust,
graffiti covered in guys lies
and a disgust
that marred her beauty
with lost hope
that made her eyes roll
at times when I spoke
to that invisible hand
she held out in front of her face.
So often looking at me
like some others do our race
as if I represented
all black men in that moment.
Game-facing me down
like an unworthy opponent
known to cheat.
Disreputable. Weak
in both character and credibility…
replete
with every failing
she ever encountered
in boys disguised as men
whose only interest was to mount her.
“I…AM NOT…THEM,”
I tried to send her through telepathy.
Wishing she had a sixth sense
that could connect with me,
and let her see
my purity of intention –
that it might crack
her hardened shell so her retention
of hard feelings might begin
to seep through it like fluid.
That, given the occasion,
I would rise to it
and prove this assertion:
“I…AM NOT…THEM.”
I am singular. A person
extruded by a Queen Mother.
Forged into manhood
by the strong brother
seated on the throne beside her,
annealing me in their love’s fire
that my mettle might be tested
but not bested.
In me the fruit of their labor
is reflected
in how all who get to know me
are respected –
Man and woman, alike.
Apparently unfamiliar
with the sight,
she didn’t recognize
a man raised right.
She had no compass.
Sure it’s possible
I’m not her type
and she did not want this,
but her eyes told otherwise.
They held contempt
not disregard.
She’d cut her eyes at me so hard
if they were knives
they’d leave deep scars
in my soft tissue
if I had low self-esteem issues.
But she kept me around
for a reason.
So, I guess she found
something pleasing
about my presence
even at arms length.
Calling me “friend,”
when I was little more
than an acquaintance –
a step above a phone number
with a date stamp.
But somehow close enough
to behave stank when
she observed
other women’s overtures.
And even though I found that bull
so absurd,
I still dig her.
I understand how her track record
with these s
makes her gun shy…
apprehensive that one guy
can be any different from the last.
Careful with her heart
and values it more than her ass.
Far from perfect,
but someone she can work with
to help seal her past
and reveal her tomorrow’s.
Possibilities seem so vast.
I just need her to leave those bags
and walk away from them with me.
- HymnAgen
