for Mary in Lagos and the man with blurred eye due to punching

justify monsterism:

remind me to sharpen my fists into callused bullets
and i will remind you that these animals live beyond your cell and interrupt me when i masturbate.

photo by Francesca Woodman

these men these men these men these savages these beasts these men
flatten themselves like cockroaches and they cling to door knobs.

these animals these animals these animals these brutes these men
linger on stairwells and wait in mailboxes to bite the fingers of readers.

What I am trying to say is they linger outside of prisons and cooped up concrete entrapments.

In my land, monsters do not wipe their limbs before plunging their screwdrivers into women.
Men light their wives on fire because of assumptions and poor manners.

Mary, your skin will never grow back and
somewhere in Lagos, you must lay on your spine to insist away the burn of bubbled shadow.

humans shut out the sounds of screams when they become too frequent.
pliers.
a settled weapon.
a death of normalcy.

I gave up collecting stickers and stamps and rocks found in gardens.
Started collecting humans and hideaways and addictions and diseases.

I gave up on straightening my hair, my sexuality, my walk-away.
Started growing tangles and teased limbs and touched as many genders as I could find.

[ … ]

The sun is engaging in a love affair with the clouds today. The clouds are holding her down. She likes it. Because of this, the trees need an understudy of light to guide them toward the direction of the wind.