three-part aria for the lovers of black clothing

i.

i used to let my mother do my hair. she would twist

my black hair into braids or ponytails for the school day

her hands golden against my scalp.

i would stare into my own eyes

in her vanity mirror, my black eyes like her black eyes that pool dull in sunlight

later, when I am much older and on the cusp of adulthood,

my hair falls like a black sheet against my neck.

when i do my own braids, they unravel like

tension.

ii.

i have seen the moon a thousand times

for as long as I’ve breathed

and i am tired of its distant paleness.

the night is not

black. it is a pale grey ink stain that bleeds out from light pollution

the only true black exists

within my bedroom walls, where the palm trees drape over the windows

and its fronds gently whisper into the shoulder of the second story of my house

like a desperate lover.

i don’t look at the night sky anymore.

iii.

the shoes i bought eight months ago

still leave blisters on my ankles.

the black leather tears into the delicate

thin skin, staining my socks red if my socks were any other color

than black. but still, when the blisters cry out in pus and blood,

i must keep walking.

my mother is waiting at home.