P/S/B/B
Pretty/ Skinny/ Black/ Boys
Who called you a beauty?
Took the sun from the sky
Placed it on your head
Called you a king
Idolized the lining of your chest
Kissed the swaying of your hips
Praised the tightness of your skin
Could they find me too?
Swathe me in the fabrics of your splendor Tip me in the remains of your makings
Make me the ninth wonder of this world For you are the eighth
Pretty/ Skinny/ Black/ Boys
Who I prayed to see in my mirror
Took my marks and stretch them around my waist
Pulled tight to form the desires of my lovers
Is there enough space?
To squeeze myself into the image of mastered beauty
Trade myself for a chance to be loved
Would I be good enough?
To hear my name said softly
To dance to the depth of your tone
To feel a blessing trickle down my spine
To be kissed
O, how I want to be kissed
Pretty/ Skinny/ Black/ Boys
Who I’ve cried to someday be
I hope my brother thinks he’s beautiful
And the arch of his bean bellied body
And the wideness of his walk
And the softness of his rolls
And the melodies in his breath
And the joy in his jiggle
And the wonder in his waddle
And the Beauty in his smile
When I look at him
I begin to cry
“Protect him from his reflection”
But
Little plump boys deserve loving reflections
Don’t they?
A Love Poem for Black
I watched as he gave way to Midnight Voyagers
and their exploration to find the sweet spot
leading them through dark grass and angry trees
to his Cross
Their hands rough (rope around his neck)
Their eyes strained (reflect raging fathers)
Their sweat runs (taste like a child’s mourn)
Each thrust, fucks away the shame
And before the tongue sibilantly slips to its natural form
They stiffen, to protect their image of a man
Purloin Black of his right to escape the bench special
And keep him for another night
to melt underneath the still heat of a streetlight
He deserves a love poem
Give him a love poem
One to accentuate his curves
One to awe at in passing reflections
One to moisturize his curls
And stun all the girls
He deserves a love poem
Give him a love poem
One he can sing aloud
like prayers
that even God stops to revel in
One to make his lips twist and his toes bunch
One he can dance to
down to the bone
One to drink warm, in a bitter place
He deserves a love poem
Give him a love poem
One to listen to
when hearing becomes memory
One to pen in the palms of his hands
Clasps them as he bows to his newfound beauty
One to quilt
One to mound to his back
One to carve into every park bench men have made their holy ground
He deserves a love poem
Give. Him. A. Love. Poem
To show his momma how it fits
To make his daddy cry
To leave shameful love in the closets they hide
And be held by this strange type of something
Only heard in pieces
To place at the altar
Praise it ‘til the day he dies
He deserves a love poem
Give him a love poem
A love poem for Black
Chasin’ Butterflies
the feeling is exhaustin’
chasin’ the same butterflies since I was a child
hopin’ it rest easy in my palms
hopin’ it touch me like a friend, like a lover ask me about my shortcomings
why my hair was so dry
why my nails nubbed
why I spoke, angered, at my own sound
about my battle wounds and what they’ve become of me
hopin’ it flutter away with all my pain
use it as a palette
to tinge its wings
as a child, i was told when a butterfly rests beside you
it meant you were a special type of somethin’
that nature named you its vessel
that God trusted you with the most delicate of life
so i prayed for butterflies to come
and for them to bring their meaning
the feeling is exhaustin’
chasin’ the same butterflies since I was a child
ritually proving my worth through silence
finding better words than truth
not wasting time on process
but rather avoiding exile
through that pretty healin’
healin’ ain’t pretty
chasin’ butterflies ain’t pretty
it ain’t paintin’ canvases on sunday mornings
/ it ain’t reading on mastering yourself
/ it ain’t dancin’ like white women in your living room
/ it ain’t running a mile
/ it ain’t overpriced yoga classes
/it ain’t face masks
/ it ain’t touchin’ myself
/ it ain’t fuckin’
/it ain’t eatin’ or prayin’ or lovin’
chasin’ butterflies looks a lot like
heaving
and grieving
and hating yourself enough that others don’t have to
it’s leaving room for pity to comfort you
it’s old photographs
it’s the left and right sides of your bed starting and ending your days
it’s returning to childhood couches you thought you’ve outgrown
chasin’ butterflies
is buildin’ a home
over and over again
watching your walls lean into yearning before it gives way
it’s burning all your burdens and the houses they reside
it’s trading in love for attention
the kind of attention
where he doesn’t even know the color of your eyes
the kind of attention
heard from silent car rides in the dark
the kind of attention
where he just takes from you
as you go back every time his headlights call you to the door
chasin’ butterflies
is someone else thievein’ your kisses
thievein’ your beauty
the one you could’ve sworn belonged to you
the one you thought fit you so well
chasin’ butterflies
is being paralyzed
calling it stillness
being abandoned
calling it migration
it’s being scared to go back to new york
it’s being scared to move
it’s being scared
the feeling is exhaustin’
chasin’ the same butterflies since I was a child
hopin’ it rest easy in my palms
hopin’ it ask me how hot the sun was
hopin’ it take me to a garden that i could dream in
not a garden but a heaven
a heaven where I don’t have to chase butterflies
where they’d just rest
and i can too
Taj Burroughs (he/him/his) is a young Black, queer, plus-sized artist from the streets of Queens, New York. The poet, actor, creative is currently earning his BFA in acting at Mason Gross School of the Arts at Rutgers University. Taj believes in the power of the pen and the deep connection it has to healing, ancestry and spirituality. He’s learning new ways to love himself and lead a healthy life everyday. You can follow his journey on instagram @tajburroughs