We peel off every layer to introspect. Inspecting the intestines like a detective, because there’s layers to the heart. I was born with hardened lungs, for inhaling the sky.

I chug the world and public eye like they’re hard l*quor, burning rough inside my throat. Took it like it’s medicine, for the creative in my bones.

(Take it off.)

Show it all to go down hard. Or coat it up to be more soft. To be loved, to be held, and to be soft.

But I’m meant to go down hard, according to my God. My Lord and Savior told me to stop repressing it; to not let the resentment ferment hate, bottled up like my own father.

My mother’s words still seem to stick with me, when she turned me towards religion. Her disposition empathetic, surviving through her issues.

Overtime to keep a shelter, with her own health instability. She still finds a way to shelter me, to be preparing me for the realities that I’m not ready to learn. Her harsh mentality, unbeknownst to me and unflinching, single-handedly raising a son.

My organs like a banshee, my parents that can’t stand me—

Handhold it like an add*ct, heavily medicated and attracted to the hardcore rush of b*er, attention, h*roine and dopamine crackhead for the rush of motherfucking ‘congratulations’ fame.

My mother would be mad with me, disappointed looking down at me, all strung out like music and craving for more d*pe.

I’m sober now.

Rehabilitated, on the up and up.

I peel off every layer to introspect. Intro dumbshit friendships who use me for my smile. Move onto relationships still left unattained, all along unreachable, ignoring roots laid in my soul and taking out my guts.

(Take it off.)

Trauma courses through me just as fluent as the English that I speak. I come from a generation of ego pride that’s humbled in the face of Tr*mp, triumphant against aggression and enforced blatant white oppression—because it’s white men that are most suppressed, according to the system.

Trauma holds my hand, to write, to live, and breathe. Therapist-taught tactics, but I dropped Melissa, and learned to feel it for its whole.

Elizabeth, am I happier now? Am I good enough for you? Aren’t my lines finally enough, without the healing that you craved?

You wanted me to be better without actually allowing me to get better, Elizabeth, and I’m sorry that I had to let you go. It was a different me. But I’m growing up successfully because of me, and I know that you cared for me, but I had to lose the therapy.

And Jake, and Ross, please just hear me now, when I say you set me back. You helped me hate my mother, and you made me see my father from a different light. Through a mirrored lens, but that only set me back.

I apologize, for my past.

(Father, are you content?)

…

(Take a minute.)

(Breathe, and sit with it.)

Feel it like a verse.

Drink it like the world.

(Take the mask off.)

My father left me when I was growing up.

Homophobia, along with the pattern of his own parental bonds. History repeats again, and now there’s discord, left between me and Mr. David, me and Mrs. David, me and Jr. David, me and the forgotten baby sister that I’ve rarely ever met.

Say it to my backside, with the awkward laughter in the room. Talk it to the hand, clenched up in a fist. I rip it off like it’s a Band-Aid, and let the marks heal over wrong.

I’m not perfect, I’m not mature, I’m barely better. Barely healed, not yet dr*nk enough, I was always sober but I still needed a drank, I need the H*nnessy.

Are you addicted?

Are you high off of the warmth it gives?

Like a group family hug—like it’s a full family reunion—outside of my found fostered home.

This is my greatest piece, this is the barest me. That’s not actually true, actually I’m more equipped to express my sorrow angrily, on and off the page.

More prepared to let the frustration cardio through me, to ruin my well-being, as fluently as words, after a full year of depression.

Mentally diseased, emotionally teased, and shaken to the core.

Just a youngin down at heart.

(Take it off.)

Feel it.

(Listen, son…)

...

(I’m proud of you.)

No, one, other than me could be the rap no., 1,

like woah, son, you gon' face off with the Black shogun,

and no, g*n, nor even clip is needed to show, blud,

I know, sum,

like math-e-maticians with a +, 1,

and plus, what,

I am headliner you is just plus, one,

shit,

I own the stage and I just showed,

up.

Instagram (@definitelynot.jy)

from the moment we’re all born, we’re subject to be changed. —a future author, maybe; starving artist as of now.

From the moment we’re all born, we’re expected to consume.

Eat-sleep-breathe made into a cycle but don’t accidentally sleep too much because you’ll overstep and wake up groggy; don’t take too much rest or you just might miss the morning.

Eat-sleep-breathe reprinted out on plastered wooden signs but don’t you dare attempt to take another person’s future breath; don’t you dare speak out. You’re so much better when you’re standing perfectly still.

(What if I only ate?)

Sit still-instill-until you grow too fat pumped full of lard to let an author’s photo frame fit your massively oversized ego—you’re a writer not a god, and you’re not even a very good one at that.

Sit still, instill. Pass this to your future children, born well after your death. Your maybe baby book will be subject to be changed, and be ready for stupid edits to be made by nothings; smoking sun-kissed lighters sparked by ghosts.

Eat-sleep-breathe-repeat, rewrite-repress-delete. Sit down at that table made for two with your fork and knife in hand.

A fistful of meat sits right in front of me, coming almost too easy and it smells like copper. “Well done,” she said, but he didn’t ask a thing when I told him I like passion. This table made for two could’ve been a dining hall of fans, but I gave up that life well over a year ago.

I just want you.

I just want you to listen, and crawl into the folds between my lines. They’ve barely learned to rhyme, and they’re nowhere near as welcome as your home. But this is a retry, meant to be a rewind. I want you to be mine, more than just a Valentine, you’re a better person this time (right?!).

And it squelches like a raw and moving liver between my teeth. It’s a bloody, ink-filled steak. I printed your heart onto my page, just for you to run away out of the fear you can’t contain. And now I’m here—

That was basic, let me try again:

And now I’m here, and now I’m here, and now I’m here.

“I’M IN LOVE!” I shout in big black bolded letters, because you’ve drowned out every page. I shout out massive words to keep you listening—to keep you here with me—even if it’s only half a second longer than your focus usually lasts. This is meant to be a book but now you’re in it, this is meant to be a book but now you’re in it, this is meant to be impactful but instead it isn’t, innit?

Whatever, I never really cared anyway.

(What was I blabbering on about? Oh, right. [Jyair David chuckles, stumbling over nothing. No, no, not like that. Stand here.] You.)

Instagram (@definitelynot.jy)

Linktree

Rosetta Literary

GHHS Literary

Soon enough, I will begin to post my prose poetry and other writing here, on SubStack, as well, but if you’re looking to read more as soon as possible, Instagram will have the earliest access to my work.

Stay tuned!

--Writing to change the way we think.