by Paris Weslyn
My words are venom.
I spit from my mouth a terrible poison.
Sorrow and pain linger on my breath.
I want my tongue to be sweet like honey
Elderberry syrup dripping down my throat,
But my tongue is forked.
I hiss and send curses up into the heavens.
Ever warring, my words are bitter cold, a frost that burns.
Darkness settles over the land—a murkiness unending—
And I am afraid.
I am scared I may never find which tree to hang myself from
To rest under its branches
To pause and find that eternal bliss
To unlock the mystery of how to speak life, tenderly
and have it burst forth off the tip of my...
‘Let there be light,’ I whisper timidly.
‘Let there be light,’ I beg.
Paris Weslyn is the return of Spring, creeping forth to cast out the darkness of Winter. She is a Black woman refreshed, reborn, and blossoming, whose purpose is to respond to existence with awe and wonder.