how did we get here? i know that there's no answer to that that feels real, valid, or good enough. i guess i know the answer, don't I? is it worth it to ask questions i know the answer to? is there any utility in rhetoric at all? is there no balm in Gilead?
if i write a poem about the ancestors, must it be sad? does it have to leave me alone here, a stranger in a strange land, and them in a black-blue ocean, struggling against choppy waters, calling out to some unrelenting God? does that poem have to leave my tongue split and my throat dry? or can it help me find my balance between oblivion and infinity? can it find them alive and singing? can it find them happening upon a diamond and returning it to the earth from whence it came? can it find them imagining me happy? if i write a poem about the ancestors, must they be perfect? do they have to be exemplars of unflinching strength? do they have to fight? or could they be resting in the shade of their favorite trees? could they be weird like me? queer like me? strange like me? bad like me? dreamy like me? silly like me? just like me?
if i write about myself does it have to be fact? does it have to be about the people i've wanted to love but been too cowardly to? does it have to be about all the things i cannot do? or can it be about me flying? me going to heaven in the white burial shroud in spite of my tattoos? could there be no heaven at all? do i have to be a girl? i had a dream that i was a gorgeous boy, curls bouncing, long arms running fast and free. i still had glasses. i was caught. the man took me by the collar, leaned in real close and told me through an ominous smile, "i'm proud of how you ran back there son. but you don't have to run anymore.” i woke up. if i write about myself do i have to be anything at all? do i have to stand there frozen, too frightened to enter or exit? Too frightened to be entered and discarded? can i fight?
if i write about myself, must i create myself in my own image? maybe i, like Dr. Frankenstein, could make for myself "a new species,” one that "would bless me as its creator and source.” maybe i'd become the Prometheus of the new millennium, robbing the Gods of their precious fire and making myself of [star-shine] and brown clay.
if i write about myself, could i relieve myself of any need for power? maybe i needn't be Frankenstein or Prometheus. no need to be God themself or even my own mother. could i just create a little life for myself, one made of elastic that i can stretch and push up against? one that won't burst when my bones decide to grow. one that's bigger than just my body. one that won't collapse like a house of cards. a life where i can dance and paint my face poorly, where i can arrive at the precipice, the beautiful wanderer above the sea of fog. A life where i can jump?
if i write about the future must it be desolate? a nuclear wasteland overrun by six-legged mad dogs snarling at the one-winged pigeons who return to the scene of humanity's final crime just to bear witness to the atrocity, for after all, seeing is believing? or can it be quiet? can it be tender? can it be soft hands barely touching? two people who have just met but have somehow known each other forever? can it be a baby playing with a ghost, rolling a big red ball, laughing as it bounces up against a wall, momentum bringing it right back where it belongs? can it be stories told of the days of yore, the strange remnants of times gone by, slime and the saying "don't forget to like and subscribe,” silly bandz and vanilla coca cola? can it be people just like us? doing exactly what they want to do?
if i write about a man destined to be king, what do i say? do i ignore the willows weeping, the wind mourning his unexpected departure? do i curse God or see Him everywhere, in everything? do i run, scared? do i fight, or die like a dog? do i ask for proof of that destiny? inquire of anyone who will listen, "could he have ever been a king at all?"
if i write a letter addressed to all my friends, must it be any longer than this?
Haja Kamara (she/they) is a writer from Washington DC. Their inspiration comes from being a middle child, yearning, and the taste of sweetness. She writes when and where she can— usually long Instagram captions, and tiny letters to their friends. This is the first time her work is being published, but won't be the last!
Follow Haja on Instagram: @superficialsimilarities and Twitter: @unofficialhaja