Tag: NaPoWriMo

I was six when I had my first case of Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis/Stevens-Johnson Syndrome.

That’s quite a mouthful and I’m doubtful you’ll remember it or stick around long enough for me to explain it if I type it all out, so let’s just call it TEN/SJS, and say it was a whole lot of pain.

To start with, I don’t mean to bitch but to educate so you avoid my fate.

I’d just started first grade at an elementary school in Detroit that will remain nameless,

But is far from blameless.

My class went to the library for the time and this was the scene of the Crime,

Where my tale begins.

A kid next to me kicked me under our table, and I kicked him back,

And that’s when the librarian snapped and kicked my ass;

He bashed my head into one of the shelves and then made me stand up for the rest of the period.

The force of the blow caused me to black it out, but luckily—or not;

You be he judge.

During the police investigation, we learned this wasn’t his first act of aggression.

A neighbor girl saw what he’d done to me.

I’m happy to confess they removed him from the profession.

The week after the assault, I began having seizures and this bought my childhood life of leisure to an end.

After an EEG, they diagnosed me with epilepsy, and further tests revealed a cystic mass where my head had been bashed.

The week before I was scheduled for brain surgery, I got strep throat;

They put me on penicillin, despite a family history of allergies to it.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “He’ll be fine.”

I don’t mean to whine, but I wasn’t, am not, and still have an axe to grind.

I developed flu-like symptoms, a red, blotchy rash;

And soon my life was hanging by a thread.

Week after week, my parents took me to the doctors;

I grew weaker and weaker,

My fever soaring higher and higher.

Finally, when I hit 103,

my parents took me to Children’s Hospital.

By then I was whisper-thin,

Mouth covered in fever blisters.

They diagnosed me with SJS/TEN on the spot,

Packed me with ice,

And my heart stopped.

Forget what you’ve read about near death experiences;

There were no pearly gates or tunnel of light.

Instead, there was just me floating in a sea of darkness,

Empty all around like a tomb or the womb.

No sound until they shocked me,

Each time only regaining sight long enough to stare up into the bright lights of the triage room.

I’ll spare you the rigmarole of the blow-by-blow.

What I want you to know is this:

SJS/TEN is no joke.

I’ve been poked and prodded more times anyone ought to,

And my parents nearly went broke keeping me alive.

I lost over eighty percent of my skin,

Lay comatose for six months,

And then had to learn how to walk and talk again.

There’s more to my tale,

But I won’t bore you with descriptions of the hell

I’ve lived through.

Just know:

Penicillin allergies aren’t anything to fuck with.

Before I begin, listen to what I’m spitin’ before ya come at me with Who ya think I’m dissin’.

If you’re white, some of y’all are all right, but for the rest, hold on Tight.

When I was younger, I had a thing for Anglo boys. Redhead, Blonde, brunette, they all got my dick wet.

Yet, I never felt secure in my own skin when I looked at my Reflection, even though I had the complexion for protection.

Listen to what I’m laying down before you start clowning around. You’re not the enemy; I’m just not with that white supremacy, Which says if you’re African, then you’re subhuman.

So, let’s dig in.

It’s not a sin to have melanin; black is where it’s at, and brown is The talk of the town.

Screw jungle fever.

I don’t wanna be with ya unless your skin’s brown like a beaver.

 I won’t poke her unless she’s ocher; I don’t want no fellow unless he’s at Least high-yellow; I don’t want your number unless you’re burnt-umber.

If you can pass the paper bag test, then it’s for the best if I pass on that ass.

Let me reiterate: my anaconda don’t want none, hun, unless you can go in the sun without getting well-done, son.

This isn’t coming from a place of hate; I’m not trying to Discriminate, just trying to eliminate the fools from my dating pool Who are only into me because of the stereotype of the bbc, or who Think it’s erotic that they find me exotic.

Sorry, bro, but that’s a no-go.

No more will I be your chocolate-covered lover, your s’more whore.

I think it’s obnoxious, and if I’m being honest, I find it vomitous.

I’m sure by now some of you are riotous. In the interest of Verisimilitude, I admit my biases.

I’ve been hurt by many a jerk, but if you’re sans the racist attitude, maybe it could work?

And if you’re cute, that’d be a perk.   

There are rules for everything and everyone, some good, some bad, Some boring, but never ones that are fun.

“Don’t do that, it’s wack. Act like this and you won’t get dissed.”

“Don’t say that; talk like this if you wanna be cool.”

“You can’t love your same gender. But remember a serial adulterer Who habitually lies can be a contender for the Second Coming, if He’s not bumming guys. “

 Dress like this if you wish to get kissed; look like this if you don’t want To be dismissed a fool.”

We’ve become slaves to these rules, afraid to be called fools, and have Become tools of our own prisons, digging our graves deeper, the dirt Piling high, burying ourselves alive, because we’re scared to get hurt. But is it worth it?

We are given the illusion of individuality, in so far as we stick to the Guidelines of what it means to be an outsider.

“Don’t like that, it’s too mainstream; check this out, it’s legit lit.”

“Don’t think like that, you’re brainwashed by the powers that be. Here, Read this book on post postmodernism and see the plight of the masses, Then you’ll be just like me.”

“Don’t buy from Walmart, because their workers are paid slave wages,” she says from her multi-million-dollar mansion in a Country, lest we forget, built upon the death of millions who were Only three-fifths a Person.

There are even rules for having not rules.

“Only read books about anarchism and only talk to people who Believe In anarchism or you’re not a real anarchist.”

“Don’t confirm to anything, but don’t be like us, you poser.”

Rules were meant to establish order and instead have become tools Of control.

As for me?

I have a new goal: to be free.

See, I don’t need rules for how to be me.

So, I say screw the rules and do you, boo.

One: hair golden as the sun. You were the best friend I didn’t know I was missing. Granted, the whole time we were hanging, I was wishing we were kissing. Though you never knew how my heart melted whenever I was around you, I’ll always remember you, boo.

Two: I was a fool for ever getting with you. We met online and that should have been a sign not to date your behind. It was fun at first, then it was the worst. I felt suffocated, then grew jaded as our love faded. I thought my heart would burst without you, but I ended things anyway. That’s when you became jerk, not respecting my boundaries or space. To this day, thoughts of you make me want to punch your face.

Three: you were a disgrace. You said you loved me, but now I see you just wanted the D. I could go on, but I’ll be quick. You thought you were slick, but you’re just a giant dick.

You make me sick.

Four: you shook me to the core. One look at you, and I was through. But I was crazy to ever think you’d get with me. I now see, I was a fool for breaking every rule when it came to you.

Still lovelorn?

Maybe.

Scorned?

Nope!

But baby, we could have been dope.

There are more, but I’m sure by now you’re wishing this poem would end.

To the one yet to come: Don’t worry, no hurry.

I’ve given up all hope of ever loving again.