The color of jade and timbre (for my sisters)

Estimated reading time: 2 minutes

I Saw her.
Picking up the bones of her children.
Bent over; blood and torn.
Liars forgotten; severed a thousand times,
Scattered across the dirt.
Picking up the bones of her children.
Drinking death;
Yearning for poisoned dreams.
The blur of cold breath in sullen worlds.

My sister, we are dead!

I kissed her cheek; 
Sallow and unfree.
Tiny hands;
What tiny hands.
Tasting the strange mist of double homicide.


Outside herself. Outside her people.

My sister.

Making love to peripheries, I collapsed between the debris.
Bloody and riven;
Outside myself; 
Consuming silence
Black flesh;
Lynched truths;
Jagged distortions; 
A Jagged distortion.
Dragged whispers.  
Niggas with guns.
Chided even in death.
Drained of dying.
Make love to me, exploit me, tell me about the time you killed our men with those dead words.

A Rhythmic dismembering
Killed our men.
Dreams lured beneath the sepulcher;
Black Hyacinths;
Dead words; trapped between nothing and the time you killed our men.
The color of jade;
Making love to me inside a serried
desperation.
Forgetting breathless Decembers in Petite Martinique.
A slowed dissonance.
The hanging of my sisters by our Mothers. 
Our mothers;
Who hung our sisters.
Coffins of wretched black;
A wretched black.

A woman;
Walking a mile in blood;
Dreaming in sin and butchery;
Folding one world into another.
Yesterday's hollowed and blurred;
I screamed From the inside out.
I saw her.
My sister.
Picking up the bones of her children.