Untitled # 6

 

In December  I broke up with my therapist.  A white man.
Jewish. Gay.  Raised in the Bronx.  The Bronx Bronx—not
Riverdale.  Several  perspectives  from which  to  conceive
of oppression, nevertheless, not a clue what Black mental
health   might   look   like.   To   most  of   his  questions, I
answered  neither, or  both.  Still,  it was  difficult to move
on.

I have always been running. Running and asking. Asking
by running. The world calls this in a woman: fickle. I call
it terrifying and  have only  resisted burning  down every
means of escape because I know what happens to a Black
woman without a place to—: no, because I know—