My voice does not sing along with Billie Holiday in the shower. It does not paint the bathroom ceiling in the delicious murder of high notes. I do not repeatedly talk myself along city sidewalks as if words hold the ability to propel my body faster. I do not read unbelievable pieces of literature, each line 3 or 4 times, terrified everyone gets it but me. I do not then make reference to how the story captured me ,how it has forever influenced my further artistic movements. I am not the white woman of your loose tongue – the impersonal, all-encompassing, white woman – not me. I do not sing, never. I am not human. I do not feel anymore the whistle and spit already bubble in my throat, confused thoughts, the noises of people who do not know where to go. I do not speak, but when I do, I am not afraid my eyes have shown too much. I have not wrapped myself completely around what people think of me. I have never been persuaded to love without my demons and my angels. I never called it love when it should have been called penis. Called it love when it should have been called lonely. Called it love when it should have been called trying-too-hard. My outer layer does not mask my secrets well. I do not feel secrets pressing the walls of my throat. I have never allowed ugly words to crawl inside my cheeks, then splatter across walls, in my heart. I will not sing. I will never be a singer. I never named this voice beautiful. Never imagined the sky was a goal we could accomplish. I never thought we were the sky or demigods. People will always people. We do not name ourselves potential. Our skin is only a collection of cells. I do not name myself solution or directions to be followed. Accountable is not a line in this story. Gravity will always keep us stuck to this floor, and this country cannot be changed by brutality and the epiphany of a madman. These bones don’t want out of this skin. I do not wish to unlock my ribcage, say, Look — I made this. I do not bleed anymore, just blue ink, solitude and my reveries. I am giving you the entire story since I tore my mother’s womb. You have already leafed through my pages. You have seen the whole show. Your approval is not my concern. I am not afraid to speak like there is something at stake. I am not afraid to finish this poem. This poem is not about me. I do not want you to listen. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I do not cry anymore. Afraid not I am. I do not bleed anymore. I am not human. I do not live in me anymore…

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