On Discovering Afrofuturism

The future of me is blurry.
I risk everything in becoming
the skin under my skin,
my real self, bloody
veins and tissue pumping
out of me like lava.

I slept, curled up, waiting
for Mother to climb in and
hold me, sew me together.
She used to hold us all,
in ancient places, She told us;
Baby, you are infinitely worthy.

But now the skin under my skin
my melanin ripples, disturbing,
the green grass I planted,
my well-kept lawn
vaporized, cauterized
not all at once, but slowly.

The born self is gone,
turned to fragile rock.
A new age, a new dawn,
the future now,
is coming.

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