Your skin expands and fills out more space. This girl's favourite thing to do is tell me that I’m angry. She loves assuming my feelings because it helps her fulfil her self-portrayal as a fair-skinned, delicate victim. White women have weaponised their femininity for as long as the Empire has been a thing. Brown women are not allowed to be disgruntled or express how they feel about manipulative and passive aggressive treatment.
Your skin expands and fills out more space. So I hold my tongue and don my best customer service voice. But when a line has been crossed, I mean who knows what triggers it, it could be being spoken to like a dickhead for hours on end when the entire meeting could have been an email, and I let out those deliciously satisfying words: “fuck you.” I experience a headiness that turns my brain into a balloon and floats me up past the ceilings, over the fields, and into a private heaven. I experience lalochezia whenever I know profanity is necessary because my gut tells me. If I spoke up about every indiscrecion, every racialised aspect of a professional setting, no one would want to work with me. And babe, that list is already dangerously low because I don’t accept runarounds or three month unpaid invoices.
FUCK. Your alarm’s gone off. The picture of me in your head is yours alone: you need it to survive. You need the picture you have of me to remain evil, terrible, unresponsive. All in order for you to keep the innocent and banal victim of yourself you’ve created intact. What I say breaks down the facade and you don’t like it - do you? Oh, say you hate me. Say it loud. You like saying it because it feels good: because it is true, because it feels nice to shout when you’re in a world that doesn’t want you to really shout.
FUCK. Your alarm’s gone off. The volume in your throat rises higher and higher as if it’s meant to pierce and burst 1000 ear drums: tiny fractal pieces of human existence all obliterated, terminated, emancipated. Castrated: your voice is. Saddened: your being is. Scream from the top of your lungs and hire me to do the management. Let me produce you: I’ll tell you where to scream and when to do it whilst getting a suitable rooftop ready for the ambience to sink into your veins - dilute - weaken - watery chaos. The need to scream is final now. Resolute as fixated, I look at you with eyes of tall wheat swaying in the wind, hold me closer; a cradle shall fall.