I’ve written myself many love letters.
I refuse to be a blank canvas for someone else to carve into.
I sometime write sonnets on the insides of my eyelids.
Secret words for brown, blushless cheeks.
Sometimes I giggle to myself, because I’m so fine.
And place my hand on my hip, to hold in my joy.
Catching glances in the mirror and looking away before anyone sees.
And no man can pull me cause I’m already caught.
Sometimes, I show people my love letters. Secretly.
When I laugh so much they can see the gaps in my teeth.
When my hair goes west, and I stay east,
And when I assana and my belly peeks for anyone to see.
Or when I dance, and I fall off beat,
So i throw my hands up until the music catches up with me.
Who else will love me like I love me.
I hope I never run out of ink.