It’s all so difficult.
Diamonds weigh on your ears,
ears incapable of comprehending criticism,
too busy listening to the yelping of yes men,
and the jingle jangle of the diamonds you wear on your wrist,
that are often caught in your long, blonde hair,
when you are monologuing with your hands,
about all the roads you walked,
when they were just dirt on the ground,
how you fashioned them into fast paced, speeding highways with your Gucci shoes,
for the ungrateful girls to skip down.
It’s all just so difficult.
Pouring over an iPad,
with a glass of wine,
on silk sheets,
because you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow,
so you pour over an iPad,
looking for dissenting voices,
little cracks in the cloud of adoration you sleep on,
crying about context,
aching over your own inability to be articulate,
when confronted with the subjects you say you’ve sung about a hundred times.
It’s all just so sad and difficult.
You scroll past the hearts of those who will have you,
roll your eyes at the heart eyed enthusiasm from those that adore you,
and you latch on,
like a newborn and her mother’s breast,
to the milk of your ego,
though it will never help you grow.
You latch onto your rappers, and what they mean for who YOU are,
your flowery verses, about how people had to suffer so that you could FINALLY see their pain.
You’re always hungry,
because you never drink anything good,
and you never get to grow,
and it’s all so sad, difficult, predictable.
You’ve never said THAT word,
hard R or nah,
but some see it in your spirit,
and you can’t see why,
because the idea of being asked to address your shit,
or accept your privilege,
is more offensive to you,
than the pain of brown girls and black girls having to see themselves dismissed,
because a white woman is upset,
and that’s their problem now,
because they’re angry,
and they’re mean,
and it’s not YOUR fault,
because you’re so fragile and gentle,
confronted by these MONSTERS…
This is an old story.
It is a story that never ends well.
It is the kind of story with a lesson that nobody pays attention to.
You look into the mirror,
never seeing what they see,
because you have a diverse circle of friends all around you, like a flower crown,
you have hopes for the future painted on each fingernail,
you have rappers in your bed,
and eyes that don’t see colour,
eyes that never meant to watch pain unfold,
eyes that never meant to be the cause,
and a mouth that can’t slow down,
rushing out defences,
because an apology is not waiting at the bottom of that wine glass.
It’s all so difficult.