Black She/ Weak He
by
Reid Mitchell and me
HE: She
wanted a new
nose. Any money I gave her, she promised, would go for her new nose,
and
contact lenses tinted blue, and for whitening cream. She need not fear
the sun
but she hated it.
SHE: He wanted a pair
of strong arms. Any time I came close to him, he claimed, he would hold
me
tight, but not suffocatingly so, and that would make him feel strong.
HE: My dark lady, my Lily. I gave her shoes and clothes instead of
cash. I
confused power with benevolence. I preserved the beauty I thought
natural. But
I only see her at night. She refused the sun.
SHE: My fragile man, my Sam. I let him hold my hand and bag instead of
body. I
mistook pity as passion. That conquering strength he looked for with a
pair of
burning eyes as well as arms. He refused to hold my bag.
HE: She said the sun
turns my brown skin black.
SHE: He said only womanisers hold women's bags.
HE: If she were
white, would she welcome the sun, hoping that it would paint her brown?
SHE: If he were
strong, would he only have me in his arms, hoping that it's enough.
When my
coffee went cold he drank it. Creamless, sugarless, bitter taste left
on the
tip of his tongue but he did not complain.
HE: She
would sell me her beauty. The price was its
destruction. I acted as if it were not hers to sell. But if not hers,
whose?
SHE: He would keep his weakness. Mental and physical. I let him live like a coward, as if I don’t care. But if I don’t, who does?