Three/Thirds = A (W)hole

Does anyone else live their life in fractions?

Fractals that fracture and cut deep before they can form their infinite pattern

Fractions like one-third, two-thirds, and three-thirds make a hole—

Sorry, a whole.

My life is crudely cut into thirds, three identities, none quite on solid ground.

My three-thirds of existence should make me feel complete but

Instead makes me pick and choose where I stand on this sand of identity.

The second month, the one with only twenty-eight days, slides smoothly into the year

With the pride that grew from the pain in my great great grandmother’s back

Cookouts, celebrations, commemorations, dedications—

All celebrating the black in me… Well, kinda.

My complexion gives away the results of slavery, muddied genetics and

Makes my ticket suspicious— What if it's forged?

Is it stamped with proof of the racially toxic experience of true America?

Check her hair, nose, and lips— What struggles have you ever had?

Light privilege— Ha, let's not go that far instead we can skirt around it

I can stay on the outskirts wondering if my ticket will work today.

This third of me creeps away silently, quietly, leaving a (w)hole inside of me

In which my second third attempts to fill.

My life is crudely cut into thirds, three identities, none quite on solid ground.

My three-thirds of existence should make me feel complete but

Instead makes me pick and choose where I stand on this sand of identity.

Women’s month comes next, a new third that disconnects

My past from myself—

But I AM a woman, phenomenally, see my breast see my hips

That isn’t how it's defined and besides, I wasn’t of the suffragist kind

Women’s marches celebrate exclusively, the ones who gave all for the vote

“Mr. President, how long must WOMEN* wait for liberty?”

A while I suppose, until nineteen-twenty—

*not women like me, they waited until mid-nineteen-sixties

Can I celebrate this third? Is it even part of me?

Or is it the ghost of an amputated limb, that itches once a year, but is impossible to soothe?

I am a woman but…

This third is the most jagged of them all, cutting me on the inside like swallowed glass.

My life is crudely cut into thirds, three identities, none quite on solid ground.

My three-thirds of existence should make me feel complete but

Instead makes me pick and choose where I stand on this sand of identity.

June rolls around and everything is red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet.

While grappling with two-thirds of “self,” I could never say it—

Happy PRIDE Month!

No one forbade me, it was unspoken, unacknowledged, and contradictory

to my Southern Baptist upbringing.

The light that refracts through me scatters its colors into unknown places,

unseen spaces that I visit in the darkness of my bedroom

They and my desires are unheard by my mind, that is…

until my third decade, what was about thirty-three, I opened the lock with a rusted key.

Inside I found— Bisexuality? Bi as in two or rather, both. It's brand new and shiny.

If invisibility were a superpower I’d be the caped crusader

I am unseen by my allies, my blood, and my enemies—

for not looking, sounding, or claiming the part. Happy Gaslighting!

Yet, this third part of the (w)hole needs no acknowledgment

It's like a tree that has been left to grow on its own, outside of the influence of toxicity

It bears sweet fruit but, after all, it's still only a third of me.

My life is crudely cut into thirds, three identities, none quite on solid ground.

My three-thirds of existence should make me feel complete but

Instead makes me pick and choose where I stand on this sand of identity.