The Secret Life of Me

Hearts are stupid.

I used to think that adulthood was one crisis after another. I was wrong.

Brown girl,  be quiet, quieter, softer. Dumb  yourself down, read less, don’t think so much about the knots in your belly.  How it hurts when they  tell you brown girl don’t laugh too loud, don’t say too much. Brown boys don’t want it, don’t like it.  All your dance, all your giggle.  Your spine or your knuckles,  those boldfaced ugly opinions.  How dare you, brown girl,  put your chin up, meet their gaze head on?  Where is your shame?  Who will want to marry you, with that attitude? With that snake tongue? With all your fire and your venom. Brown girl keep your eyes down, brown girl keep your legs shut, brown girl, disappear, slowly, gently, so they don’t see you dimming.  Turn in on yourself. Switch the lights off,  cast your eyes down.  Brown girl, listen.   When your auntie tells you sshhhhhh, when your mama says  your hips are too big,  your mouth is too wide,  and those words, the bite of them,  how could you, brown girl,  be more than that, how could you?

One day, long after you left, I finally realized you were actually gone. The suddenness. The spark. Learning a new word for without.