Brown Dumb Eye by Aja Bailey
Many left swipes later I made sure to time it right. To trail my tongue from your ear to your neck molds. I watched your slit eyebrows raise at my inexperience at dick play. I can’t improvise
outside of stage lights and a classic stage though I wanted our anxiety to bust
together. I wanted to taste my off-springs and hope they took root to my sticky taste
buds and sprout wet mouth creatures. Preferably woodland. You nutted out ashes that
splotched my hair giving me white strains to add to my nine. It added a nice touch to my
black quartz birthmark on my left cheek. Just an hour ago we drank your mother’s
lemonade in your Mazda from your Colt 45 bottle. I was too afraid to swallow the seeds.
I didn’t want sour fruit to cause an imbalance within my persona since I describe myself
as salty as a vulgar sugarcane.
I wear my thigh-high tights to dive bars and restaurants only for decoration
I throw on that black off-the-shoulders dress I ordered off Amazon
I giggle every time “C.R.E.A.M” plays over the numb speakers
I whine when guys flirt after failed tequila shots
You told me to fetch them—you don’t want to see me alone
Surely they can’t know that I inhale artistry through my nose and it drips to my panties
Only you notice that voodoo shit
It still takes you by surprise when you gag out cardamom milk when you kiss my lips
Oh I love the way you gasp with shaky vividness like a Proust cough
I dodge those guys that fuck at a snail’s pace to
I long for your heritage. To wear my favorite crisp yellow sweater that matches
your mother’s vibrant sari. To braid your niece’s hair and let her coconut oil steady my
nervous hands. Give me her name. Tell me. Let me utter the syllables to lift the strain
within my mountain lungs. To love your ahki and our Allah much more even after I told
him to leave you in place. I knew if I prayed he’d pull you further out of my reach.
He intercepts anyways… always. He knows you’re toxic to my tonic. He doesn’t know
how it feels when your internal devil flavors my melanin flaked walls with your henna
You brought Virginia’s industrial scent back to me, which was replaced with damp
asphalt and shine when I moved higher up to Blue’s ridges. It goes well with your
cum honey smell. We have a fragrance. Like your sacred lotus. Like our
fragmented sentences. Even in the sultry hot we can bloom beautiful without the calm
in our sinister garden. I reread your subliminal texts. I understand them now.
You prefer rhymes and verses though. It’s your living. But don’t mistake this for a love
letter like I mistook your ethnicity when we first met. I won’t send the first text anymore.
I’ll only admire your lyrical attacks on YouTube and those two moles parallel to your
brown dumb eye. I’ll never trust your compromises because even “promises” sounds
different at the end.