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Ode to Hanif

They painted over the graffiti in my basement this week. I’m sitting at a French restaurant drinking chamomile tea with whiskey. Last night I let a Haitian man seduce me with his 90s hip hop mini disc player. His manners are impeccable and we’re kind and testing. Kind of texting. But post truth is coming up a lot this week. My red finger nails against this white tea cup. I painted them for Christmas lights. It’s the same red as blood. I’m reading Hanif Willis-Abdurraqid and he’s seen a lot more other people’s blood than me. I wonder whose choice that was and when they made it. I assume it was a man’s. It makes me want to get more loud but [misogyny], and being an empowered woman is synonymous with feminism but I’m not an activist: I’m just strong. 

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