Pieces of Sasha Massey: #4 - Salvation in Music (Sasha Massey

Pieces of Sasha Massey: #4 - Salvation in Music (Sasha Massey - Lafayette, LA)

At the bottom of a roiling ultramarine sea I look up from the floor. My eyes sting from the salt and darkness. Adjust and then adopt the bioluminescent glow I need to navigate. "You will always be other. Alien. A mimic." It echoes and claws at my heart.
My mind.
Ringing alone in the empty vastness of saltwater. How does a mermaid trapped on land grow her sea legs?
A great yawning moan shudders through tectonic plates. A wail escapes from the pit of my chest reaching decibels not associated with me.
My skin. My curves.
She could never. She doesn't look like what is allowed to have words like opulence and ethereal beauty aimed at her.
Rage smothered in silence and poverty. Shut up in my heart and bones!
You would dare speak up? You would dare stand up and not cower when a rich pale one sibilantly hurls a complaint? Are you some sort of reborn Emitt Till?
Bow. Scrape.
Why are you still standing?
No. Not you. There's too much water in your eyes. A body taking up space and failing to command it.
You are so much a heap or raw nerves than a walking, singing, living thing. Bursting seams. Losing love. Passed aside for less voice and skill attached to the pale ones that happen to "know people".
Numb.
Spent.
Screaming behind my eyes.
Shaking from low blood sugar and adrenaline leaving me. Limbs jangling like electric lines being tested.
Is there a place for us?
Exclusion and discrimination has contaminated the soil here. It has been indoctrinated and inherited like so much of the hoarded wealth here. Generations accustomed to a certain way of living. Granting limited allowance to those just light enough to sit on the porch but never enter.
When I am up. Floating. Finally singing like an avenging angel. A pheonix. I am not just some black girl. It is cruelly brief.

Comments

Ash Wednesday (Brian Falcon - New Orleans, LA)

It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...

Louisiana Words Remembers Jorge Arturo

There’s nothing that hurts more than when we lose someone from our Louisiana Words family. But, the beauty of our writing movement is that the words of our loved ones live on with us. On June 20th, 2023, Louisiana Words Allstar, Jorge Arturo, moved on from this world leaving our hearts broken. He was a charismatic and talented human being. Jorge resided in New Orleans, LA and had been active on Louisiana Words for over a year. To honor Jorge’s life and work, we will be sharing his writing and live performances all Summer 2023. Please help keep his spirit alive by sharing his work. We know that Jorge’s words will connect with our readers and we hope to keep his spirit alive. Jorge’s first submission: “The Dog Show” debuted on February 6th, 2022 and is his most successful piece to date. In 2022, Jorge spent 10 weeks in the top with “The Dog Show,” “Weavers,” “They Say Love Kills, This Time It Really Did,” and “If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport.” His la...

Nobody Said There'd Be a Day Like This (Sam Ray - New Orleans, LA)

I know how this should be: I've seen it, you see, In soap operas, Movies. Your eyes are closed, As if in sleep. Perfect peachy skin Atop a snow white pillow Under flawlessly matched sheets. The heart monitor, Quiet bleeps. The ventilator, A steady hiss. None of that is this. Your eyes Stuck open Seeing without sight Yellow sclera Dumb tears streaming. Tubes, taped to your face Delicate skin torn Where nurses Repositioned them To feed you To heal you You never liked being told What to do. Your whole torso spasms Spastic, Every 40 seconds. A machine Forces your lungs to act. Your hands are warm From hemodialysis But don't respond When we each grab one Give it a kiss. We spend the day Brushing your hair Telling stories Singing songs. Praying prayers. You're not there. Hospital staff Are more lovely If less pretty Than on TV. When the time comes They gently walk us From the room Close the curtai...

Search This Blog