The songs of blue fill her broken spirit
The music sneaks into the lines and spaces in between
The songs of her broken voice,
The rythm of her broken soul.
The bones in her body scream,
Shrill, sharp, abrupt.
Look at her.
Throwing her hands from side to side,
Breaking her hips.
Her feet tell a story,
An African tale.
Her dark chocolate skin, covered in blood.
Her wounds recount
How the best moves from Kenya,
Ghana, Nigeria, to Sudan,
Selling these poor girls’ spirits.
The joy he finds in crushing,
Laughing to the cries that claw out from inside,
The hot iron rod he pierces into her soft, delicate, dark skin
As the music leaks down her body.
She sings, she screams, she dances
To the rhythm of her doom,
Telling the story,
Of a black,
Of an African