• this poem is the s**t man

    Slip of the Tongue by Adriel Luis

    My glares burn through her.
    And I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her
    because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.

    And in the presence of this higher being,
    the weakness of my masculinity kicks in,
    causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller,
    God’s gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like,
    “Yo, what’s crackin shorty how you livin’ what’s your sign what’s your size I dig your style, yo.”

    Now, this girl was no fool.
    She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like,
    “Boy, you must be stupid.”
    so I’m looking at myself,
    “Boy, you must be stupid.”
    But looking upon her I am kinda feelin’ her style.

    So I try again.
    But, instead of addressing her properly,
    I blurt out one of my fake-a** playalistic lines like,
    “Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you.”
    Now, she’s trying to leave and I’m trying to keep her here.
    So at a final attempt, I utter,
    “Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?”

    At this point, her glare was scorching through me,
    and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes
    resemble some kinda brown fire or something,
    but there’s no snap or head moement,
    no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger,
    roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant.
    She just glares through me with these burning eyes
    and her gaze grabs you by the throat.

    She says, “Ethnic makeup?”
    She says, “First of all, makeup’s just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility
    that my sisters have been programmed to consume,
    forcing them to cover up their natural state
    in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state
    because people keep telling her
    that the other sister’s natural state is more beautiful
    than the first sister’s natural state.
    At the same time,
    the other sister isn’t even in her natural state,
    because she’s trying to imitate yet another sister,
    so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister’s trying to imitate
    wasn’t even natural in the first place.”

    Now I’m thinking, “Damn, this girl’s kicking knowledge!”
    But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like
    “Fine. I’ll tell you bout my ‘ethnic makeup.’
    I wear foundation,
    not that powdery s**t,
    I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
    It’s that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized,
    I can still vocalize with confidence that i know where my roots are.
    I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul,
    and I take this from my ancestors
    because I’ll be damned if I’d ever let an American or European corporation
    tell me what my foundation
    should look like.”

    I wear lipstick,
    for my lips stick to the ears of men,
    so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony
    with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales,
    as if my waistline and weight are inversely propotional to my value as a human being.
    See my lips, they stick, but not together.
    Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut.
    Now, I mess with eye shadow,
    but my eyes shadow over this time where you’ve gone at ends to keep me blind.
    But you can’t cover my eyes, look into them.
    My eyes foreshadow change.
    My eyes foreshadow light.
    and I’m not into hair dyeing.
    but I’m here, dying, because this oppression won’t get out of my hair.
    I have these highlights.
    They are highlights of my past atrocities,
    they form this oppression I can’t wash off.
    It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers,
    this oppression manifests,
    it’s stressing me so that even though I don’t color my hair,
    in a couple of years it’ll look like I dyed it gray.
    So what’s my ethnic makeup ?
    I don’t have any.
    Because your ethnicity isn’t something you can just make up.
    And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that’s not makeup, it’s make-believe.”

    I can’t seem to look up at her.
    and I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her
    because the expression on her face
    shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.

    As her footsteps fade, my ego is left in crutches.
    And rejection never sounded so sweet.