underneath this melanin,
I hold orphans and little-broken children
with acne beneath their eyes and freckle-spotted cheeks.
they sit in a closely knit group and hum a tune,
one I know so well, that speaks of a man and his many demons.
the crescendo builds as they pitch, in a bid to outdo the voices of their
brothers in my head.
the words I long to say ferment in my mouth,
dissolve my teeth and tongue
into a stream, melancholy is a waterfall.
hunger is easy for seedlings hardened by harsh conditions.
I watch a boy pour himself from a bridge
his body becomes blood