“The Me Ran Away From I” makes its demands on the reader but it repays the attention you’re willing to give to it. Its language knits together an unusual and arguably frightening sensibility; it does this knitting piece by piece, it knots synaesthetically, it taxes identity and dares to name whiteness as a quantity. It plays sentence against line and maintains the wavery borders between all persons.
-- C.S. Giscombe
I started peeling off my skin the other day
smacked against a brick wall
it splinters into diamonds
ripped the last shiny cut off the tip
of my flaccid quiet penis violent
with the songs of emancipation
in our shadowed alleyway
I shook. I shook hard. I fought
narrow four sided shapes off my hot body
and I let them sparkle to the ground to
stare up at me with as shed faces
white foreign emigrants that
lay below not mine
mimicry exiles that patterned
into a flat corpse on the ground
naked shudders wave over my bodies
newly as winter morning cold
when orphaned skin fragmented giggles
in the taken shape of I
chance at this bare freedom
in the dawn of broken chains
myselfs yell for
their body bounding howl to howl
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