betrayed by the self

Against my will I stand before my reflection. You wouldn’t even recognise me anymore. And its not just the slight swelling of the jelly fish sting. Or the two new shades of black from the scorching Inagua sun, nor my kinky salt ridden locks. Heck it’s not even my new found, slightly impressive Kalik belly. No, not even that could account for the changes.

That glimmer in my eye - you know, that innocent one; yea, well that’s being tweaked a little. It’s a different kind of light now. No matter how hard I try, the naivety is being wrenched out of me. Maybe there isn’t good in everyone. Maybe, just maybe, every person has an ulterior motive. I’d better start working on mine to catch up with you kidz.

I had a gait in my step. I was on a platform because the world was mine for the taking. It still is, but now I have to grapple with this idea of maybe sharing it. My steps are now ordered, controlled. My childlike curiosity is fast being replaced by an understanding of the dangers that lurk behind closed doors. Doors that should never be open.

I have an accent. It used to be pure, different. There was no mistaking that I am foreign. Teased though I was, I vowed to never compromise my voice and diction just so the CoolKidz would accept me. Nope. In fact, they needed to be accepted by me. But this assimilation thing is a sneaky little devil. Not only that, but my vocabulary has gotten a little more colourful after messing with these people and their fuckery.

Pick a lane, pick a lane! That's all I ever heard. But I'm just tryna swerve, without hitting a curb...
- Drizzaaay

exotic – yet another one of my labels. I swear no one just calls me by my name anymore. In DreamLand they love to point out my unorthodox look; my rich chocolate, even-toned skin; my slightly Asian eyes, red enough to be reminiscent of a Stoner, but still childlike enough to prove that this isn’t so; my ‘good’ hair (because dark-skinned people aren’t supposed to have good hair?) and of course my ridiculous metabolism that allows me to consume way more than I need but still maintain the figure of a Gucci-wearing stick on a catwalk in Italy while myriad paedophilic lights consume her slow dying skin and bones, until finally, she meets her end splashed across the glossy papers of Elle or whatever the leading fashion magazine is. But, nothing exposes me more than the riddim in my hips at the sound of music. Tropical drums move in and through me, taking my body on a whirlwind adventure through the hearts and minds of men(maybe women too) who cannot understand the pairing of my sex appeal with my conservatism. Lately though, these frickin’ CoolKidz taught me this Wu-Tang and Swag Surfin’ nonsense. Sad to say, but I absolutely enjoy them.