Black, the Creator
“All the world's a stage” Said a white man once. I’ve been trying to make a home Out of this spotlight ever since.
Every day, my body has an audience. It feels good when I can choose who that is. Sometimes, the stage feels like an auction block. But what is being negotiated here?
In this moment, I belong to everyone or no one. But my body is still a testament to its owner. Each bid gives me a different name. Each applause affirms that I belong here
Or somewhere, to someone. But if we are all actors Then who is watching?
When it’s just me And this little booty in the mirror? Is it just me?
I imagine a crowd before me. Basking in the light of solace, I make me a naked offering. A Black body floating in space, Filling it with all of me.
Am I performing now? Can you see me?