Drops of my Black Soul

White water rushes from my faucet, clear white transparent water washes my skin. Chlorine, metallic sediments, and microscopic pieces of plastic all dangle down my skin and cover me with white fog. My eyes closed trap me within my black consciousness, totally segregated from the white waterfall gushing over my head. Water trinkets hang impossibly from my fingertips, ornamenting my black skin as it stands in the midst of white water. My eyes shut to the white world while the white fog engulfs my black pores, my pores filled with melanin, my pores filled with history, my pores clogged by dirt, my pores breathing black sweat. My eyes still closed, closed to the white water washing over my soul, the white water cleansing myself of my ambitions. This white water stolen from red soil promised to serve me well, it promised to wash my history. The white water promised to be transparent, it promised to be life, it promised to be health. My soul shakes, my soul reverberates and trembles with each drop crashing on my black skin. My black soul lashes onto my feet, it begs, it begs the water to stop, it begs my eyes to open, it begs my skin to hold, it begs my breath to still. My black soul drops every morning, and every morning white water tugs at my black soul. Every morning, my eyes cower and close to the predestined battle. Every morning, pieces of my black soul drop, drop down the drain, and although my black soul fights, sometimes my black soul loses. Every morning, I stare upon my shower-head like Damocles, I stand staring at my destiny, and every morning I succumb to my fate and open the faucet. Standing below the daggers of the white water, I spend another morning standing on guard not knowing whether the white water will win, not knowing if my black soul will survive the battle.

-June 11, 2020. Written in the sonic presence of Erykah Badu