Aflame

Whitney Brown

If I tell you a secret, should I whisper? Or can you lean your shoulder into me, as my lips drip with words only you were meant to hear? Or I could yell my secret. We both know you love the enticement of taboo words. I know the scent of mango that lingers on my collarbone has your attention. Or perhaps my preparation is in vain. Perhaps the white woman in the perfume ad doesn’t even see me. She sees through me, and she sees to that white man’s pocket. As I stand in line and count my pennies, carefully rolled with mama’s love, I forget that they don’t give a damn about me. This society fuels the passion I need to light the match to send it to hell. Will I walk away from the flames, or will I become a martyr? Will history know my name? Will you remember this poor black girl? When you see my name in the newspaper, will your blood rise? Will your eyes water? Or will you write me off as “that crazy black girl who lit the world aflame?” I don’t mind. You see, crazy has always been my middle name. But it wasn’t on my birth certificate. I was blessed by his highest and anointed with it. How many “crazy black girls” can say that?