Photo by Baptista Ime James on Unsplash
It was a total eclipse of the heart the way we met that night during karaoke
when you spilled vodka next to me while you were trying to flirt lowkey.
Crooned words a wasp's buzz in my ear, "Pretty for a black girl, ain't you?"
Disgust like cigarette butts burned my throat and I didn't know what to do,
just listening to a warbling Whitney-wannabe and my hair singing in 4C
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
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