Somedays I wake up covered in the blackest ink. Viscous
it clings to my skin, an oil stained second skin, dripping
from a bleached bone white ceiling, slicking my hair
down upon my tender-headed scalp. 

Somedays, it takes the effort of Idiyanale, of Oshun, of Jesus
to pull me out of the pit of tar, as the substance drains
me of breathe and water and light.

Somedays, the ink seeps in so deep and fills me
to bursting, to breaking, to shaking, and pours

out of my eyes and mouth

and onto

the

clean

ground.