I love your body. I love how it so willingly accepts strength and yet is so powerfully afraid. I see all this when I experience you. When I lick and touch you, I feel it. Your being never embraces me for too long, as if you fear my innate softness will sog your evolution. But your distance, I don’t fear. I find ecstasy in discovering how you worship your own body and how you’ve developed a habit of escaping it all in the same breath. You fear the world in a way I never will. Being with you brings me to the ultimate consciousness of this woe, yet I am so gravely comforted to be in the presence of a man who knows his way through each canto. But we emerge from different hells. My confinement beautifying the deconstruction and of my blackness, that of which is too black and not black enough—your inferno inflicting punishment through the extermination of black bodies for the sin of involuntary proximity. Still, I crave your body, your understanding of the world. You respectfully march to the rules of the streets, and I erratically challenge every concept of society.
I suppose you think of me as exempt and fair, I see you as complacent- yet you are everything but; wisely taking care of you and your legacy, and I often feel judged in my pursuit to save the world. Everything about our nature collides, despite the way we uncontrollably contradict one another. At night, when we finish worshipping each other’s bodies, you turn your back to me more often than not. I stare intently. At first, I feel rejection, like my body, wasn’t enough for your nourishment, and you rather sleep than be fed. Now I know my intimate reality never allowed me to comprehend anything contrary to this, until you. I began thinking about your truth, reading the words your body spoke. In your world, I don’t imagine you turn your back to anyone. I guess in your world, it remains against the wall. That in your universe, turning your back could cost you the body I adore so much. Perhaps you trusted me in a way that you hadn’t trusted anyone ever – that I had your back. But now, lying next to you, I’ve become painfully aware of my inability to save either of us. That my obsessive need to wrap my body around you, allow you inside of me for your protection, and to eradicate anyone who dares threaten your body, the one I worship, isn’t enough—what a vicious cycle. But your essence has made me a better woman. The way you thrust implicitly to praise your ego gives me purpose. I honor the nights you let me heal any of your pain and come alive when you offer to alleviate mine.
There is so much space between your world and my totality. Between you and I. But there is so much beauty in our intersections. The places where you fit so perfectly. The places I take you that no one else has before. I presume you are fire and I am earth. Your body has always been in danger. My body ever used for the pleasure of others. When our flesh becomes one, I feel beautiful, and I hope this beauty is somehow enough to ease the peril of losing our bodies as a black man and woman. Because if I am to lose my body to any phenomena, it will be to the wonder of you.
This exert is inspired by the concept of the body in Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book: “Between the World and Me.”