By Mya Nunnally
I guess it’s time to write about the death of black bodies
But instead I write about how my skin browns in the summer sun,
Dark like syrup. bees think I’m honey, land on me like flowers.
Somewhere a black body follows the equation x – 1
Define your variables, it’s the first thing they teach you.
Isolate it to find its value.
X = a life cut short by a bias we never thought to unlearn.
I’m pleading for the sun to burn me darker,
To show them some life form loves me
Enough to make a mark. A darkening kiss.
Take your bullets, give them to the bees,
Tell them it’s honey— by goddess,
Just take them away from me.
I wish I was still afraid of the dark.
that I didn’t know what rests in swirling cloaks of black,
that I didn’t remember where the hard hip of the kitchen counter was,
or the swinging dress in the doorway.
I wish it was a ghost again.
I wish I hadn’t named everything in the dark,
hadn’t constricted potential into language,
had taken all of the demons out of my bedroom
before I even played with them—
hadn’t had tea at their everchanging tables,
hadn’t let the darkness swallow me like water,
until I was formless, myself—
something some child somewhere
is still afraid of, waiting desperately
to turn on the light.
Having loved books since the age of four, Mya Nunnally is a writer and poet who looks to explore the complexities of life through language. She attends Barnard College of Columbia University and cherishes her kitten, Ramen. Many of her articles about graphic novels can be found on ComicsVerse, along with articles about literature on BookRiot. When she isn’t writing or reading, she’s playing video games with strong female characters.