You Can’t Define My Kinky

You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t put your finger on how I twist my braids like this

 You can’t define how my fish net stockings are not intertwined with your need for lust, I mean intimacy

You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t understand how I write words like this.

Nor comprehend why you’ll never understand why the way I’m made up is not for your articulation neither is it something you can touch.

It’s only to be admired.

 It is a Van Gogh on a New York Museum wall.

 It is the ruins of the Colosseum in Rome  Messed up enough to look ART .

 But not whole enough to be defined.

When Art is Uniformed

I tried to hide my weird, but

It just so happens that weird is called

Artistic

When its put on camera,

So,  I got up, out of the hallows of wallowing in my indifference

Contoured my cheekbones

And smudged my eye makeup to look the part

I pressed record on the camera

And I realised that my weird began to feel strange

When it was all for show

When I was trying to make it a declaration to the world

That this, too, was acceptable

When I became an advocate for my weird

It wasn’t mine

It became something for all the grief stricken to march for

It became a hashtag for the media obsessed

It became a statement to excuse, not glorify my weird

So I took the regular face towel and rubbed the ordinary from my weird face

And when all the mascara and bronzer was off

I looked into the camera

Smiled

And took me and my weird outside to play

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