Something Sticky
Black trans girls are dropping

like mosquitos in the age of

prisons and cis black men like

zappers, like a blood body burst

from man-made lightning. Zap.

Someone says Die you little fucker

and people laugh, and people let

people laugh because it’s

easier that way. Not to think

of the electric bodies trapped in

the zapper’s prison or the son

beating down on her, the son that will

melt her insides inside the cage. You

don’t turn off the zapper. You don’t

release the mosquitos barely breathing

at the bottom of the zapper’s cage. You

don’t think about the girls melting under

the sons because it’s easier that way.

Because once you got read by a black girl

like a bite and you scratched yourself

bloody tryna get your allyship clean.

Because the black girls got themselves

zapped, caged, trapped in the first place

they must have been looking

for trouble. Because their melt

is less tragic than our itch.

Because the buzz in your ear

was bitter T and you catch more

humans with honey. Something

sweet like laughter. Something

sticky to glue the jaw