I got this glasshouse of a heart that I put into poems and photographs.
Strangers have watched me break and gather myself
with a mirror glued between my fingers
no matter how grotesque and brutal the reflection.
My heart is Frankenstein's monster.
Most days, I'm not sure if I'm Victor or victim.
Most nights, I'm animated by some unknown spark
that projects this fire, confined like unborn, in my belly.
I give things openly that people never asked for,
but I don't need their permission to exist.
I never said they ʜᴀᴅ to watch.
But most people can't walk by a glasshouse without looking in.
Even if it's merely to criticize it for being glass in the first place.
Anything transparent, broken and beautiful makes them uncomfortable.
--Melanie YeYo Carter
Full room and I was movin’ through the crowd with
I ate twice before I came energy
I left the worries outside next to old insecurities
smokin a blunt so they could get their shit together
I was spilling black woman all ova everybody’s space
The gutta-walk was sickening
Sex appeal and wet on 10
with no outlet worthy enough to get this wet wet
this Soul Snatcha
this baby-nectar-voodoo shit
Until it found safe ghosting on an old lover’s lips
Occasionally, full circle occurs unexpectedly
And it ain’t always pretty or docile
It can brew like quiet before storm in a catacomb of emotion
or in a backseat brimming with exposed bodies full of everything
Air full of blood words and torture tactics
that sound like “pull my hair and slap my ass… again… again”
There are no lies, just skin
No “I love yous” because it didn’t work the first time,
and, at this point, songs are the only thing in this life worth the repeat
And it ain’t that I don’t feel the love anymore-
I just know it’s not enough
I just know it doesn’t taste the same
But, my God, how we can still find each other’s spots in the dark
make beautiful orgasms of an unexplained connection
I still think our children would have been southern classics
with machetes for mouths and sky skin of unmuted melodies
addicted to feeling
addicted to people
and overly passionate about shit like lines and lyrics
and love stories that don’t resemble war
But, those are just thoughts
with no what ifs attached
Our possibilities were gutted and eulogized
somewhere between the second and third girlfriend you chose
that wasn’t me
Somewhere in the miscommunication where I was hurt
and you were angry
and we were both some stubborn ass glassblowers
who forgot our Eden and our apple
But, we can still taste it
Still feel it between our teeth like gravity
Reminding us that we messed up the love
but we’ve always known how to f’k each other like porn stars
Like joy growing through bloody concrete
So, we split each other open
And I walked away spilling black woman all ova yo shit
My gutta-walk was sickening
And I held no regrets--
Melanie YeYo Carter
"I am a LIFE REPORTER, but for short, you can simply call me a poet."