I ran to the bathroom with scissors in my hand.
There was a blue ribbon in the doorway.
Should I cut the crap like a number 2?
Or snap it with my chest like a number 1?
When the color of my shower curtain turned toilet tissue white before my eyes I knew it was gone be a shitty day.
I reached puberty when the water hit my face: My balls dropped.
The carrot was 24 karats but I started crying when rubbing on the onions.
The bigger one but the one that was less relaxed had peas attached to it.
My mama slaved over a hot stove. My papa put a bun in the oven. I’m scared to face them. I’m embarrassed. I rather them stare at my kitchen when I say I played with my food.
I flushed their thousand dollars down the toilet a million times.
And as punishment that couldn’t be any crueller, they probably have me maneuver through the sewer with a pooper scooper if the talk around the cooler is my future is athlete, not like the ones who track meet, like the ones who play with one ball to bounce off of Shaq’s feet.
But this hasn’t come from the real Dr. J.
Because I’m not a customer of the business I own.
I need to stop overlooking this like women during the third week of breast cancer awareness month .
Kiss Peace 💋✌🏾