So we met.

So we didn’t meet.

Actually we sat in a car. Looking.

Mmmmm not really.

I pressed his bones, his slim physique, his pubescent skin. He said my skin was like butter. He couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I am. I wasn’t interested. I was in awe of his brooding eyes. His alien trajectory, his jumble of accents, Lebanese poetry, fast, hard, hot sex. He pulled my hair hard, I melted in his grasp, like butter.

The mixed race, the brown, the more anti whiteness than the black, the melting of the imperialist canon into pan African, wokeness.

He asked for McDonald’s, I asked for certainty…


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