BROWN SKIN | BOOK 1

|| C H A P T E R . 32 ||

To Beau,

Because dear is a sweet, sentimental note you read with snickerdoodles and green tea. So I hope you drink poison with this one.

I wanted to write something beautiful, but I don't know what. Where to start I mean. This will be my last one that I'll be writing for a long time. I feel like I written to you about our past more than my feelings in the present. Maybe, I don't know where to go from there now, since you're gone. But to this day, I thought you should know. So. . . I want my thoughts to run freely with this one, onto this meaningless paper. Here it goes.

Many people don't know me, but I don't know who me is either. My story isn't sweet or harmonious like the life of others who lie to themselves as if it is. When I was told stories were written in the stars, I crushed them with my bare hands, squeezed so hard until my fists shook and traced my own constellations to the heavens. When I was told stories were leading us to fate, I grabbed destiny that shined in the crystal ball of fortune and dropped it purposefully on the ground until it shattered into pieces. I wrote my own fortune cookies and cooked them in the oven for my sake.

I can't tell you if I'm the loud or rude stereotypical black girl because Mom would say I need to speak up. I'm using my library voice with strangers.

I can't tell you I'm the introvert because I like good company.

I was born into a world that judges me before they get to know me. And try to attack the concept of happiness. I need it most in this filthy world we live in. I needed you. Because you listened and didn't say a word. Just you being there was enough to make me believe you understood the troubles in my sentences and words spoken in a foreign language.

I want myself back but now. . . I can't remember who I was.

My stories had chapters of you in them too. I received no letter from you, even in my most vulnerable moments. You said you would. My mother is dead.

You didn't care I guess, so I slowly started to let you go. I thought beautiful things about you Beau, like how a man would see in a woman, but I was more poetic. I guess you're the poet now. Your flowery and fragile words were again sweet nothings boys were taught to express now in creative sensual composition to us stupid little girls. So we believed them as naive as we were because we didn't know any better mom would say. Y'all don't know any better now. 

Love was not a creation from a four letter word but was shaped in a boy with flawed impeccable eyes and pink lips that were kissable and a cut above his eyebrow and hands that could caress jewels and dreams for what they were worth. Love wasn't something I really wanted and nothing like this but it made me happy. I'm afraid to say you made me happy, but in the silver lining, it wasn't always bitter, and that's what made me happy. But now you're just a boy with bones and a beating heart with magnetic eyes, how did you fuck me over and up so bad?

You were just a boy that called me pretty and left. Just like everyone else but this time, it was you. Now, you no longer define my worth for the time being. Things were fucking beautiful but not anymore. I'll pick up my pieces and live after you just how I lived before you too.

So thanks for the venom and violence in your body you poured inside of me. I hope to return the favor. Instead of dancing with the palm trees in California, I'm taking my visit to Europe.

So get ready.

I will be paying a little visit with my new boyfriend, the black pistol, so be ready. I am going to kill you.

Because you killed me first.

  — Ebonee