Fourth Thursday

We aren't the same.

You are another one
who wears her heart on her kneecaps
and squeezes it to her chest
when lonely.
Taught that you are a queen by birthright
and that your kingdom has yet to be established
they told you black was beautiful
but rarely said you were, too.
Your told to trade sports for success
and wear that as your tiara,
accessorize and prioritize,
let them fight for you,
you're worth it...

And sometimes, you wonder
what scale that worth is measured on.
You wonder if the rain washed away
the accessories or even that
night-kissed skin,
would that birthright be washed
away as well.
You learned to smile through doubts,
to believe that no one feels like you feel,
to hope that there's someone out there
who make your birth feel right.

and me,
well,

Sometimes, I wonder if boys are born
with papercuts on their hearts.
A lifetime knowing they're there,
a lifetime feeling that burn,
and a lifetime searching for the right bandage.
We pound our chests to say we fear no pain,
but we don't know what to do when it bursts
and drips all over our egos.
We're told to love last and race first,
to always fight,
and when pushed against a wall,
push back,
but we're never told what to do
when everything's calm.

When thirsty, we're told to swallow our tears
and spit the salts to the ground,
to never take the same step twice
and to see your birthright, not you.
We're not supposed to love you,
we're supposed to want you.
We love it when you're graceful,
when every step is just right.
It make it prettier
when you trip
and fall right into love,
or at least us.

We aren't the same
We're two entities,
one's waiting to grow into their birthright
and the other wants their heart to heal
or at least scab over.