Add half half for sweetness by Tatiana M.R Johnson Lyrics
vanilla pound cake
feels like clouds in black hands
is softness on a chiseled bruise
makes the day like days
should be
another way to attempt to feel light
the woman who made the woman
who made me dark and short,
shy in shadows,
makes cake with all the cream
in the kitchen
the white hits the batter
becomes something else
more delicate on the tongue
my hair is burning in her kitchen
an iron close, hissing my scalp
the static of my hair baking
the knots into smooth and
i stay away from the sun
the water
sit inside, instead
wishing away, sweat
watching the black boys
playing
their hair granite against the
wind of a jumpshot in heat
hearts, rising
with the rhythm of cake
almost can reach
the strands on my head, i think
to my shoulders
this makes me feel more
girl and less black thing
no braids
just straight dangling beauty
revolting to curl back
above my ears
and, no one notices the change
how sweet i have become
how good i am, now
i taste the salt on my lips
wonder if i only taste this rancid,
to my own self
a little girl
has told me that I am black
that my hair won’t grow too
long and I believe
there is something wrong
the woman whose hair is as unruly as mine
says, there is something wrong
when the cake is too
dry, so to always add creamer
to please the palate
so I do
always add something soft
perhaps the swallowing of
all of this
will barely scorch the tongue
perhaps it may float gently
against the cave of
someone’s mouth
feels like clouds in black hands
is softness on a chiseled bruise
makes the day like days
should be
another way to attempt to feel light
the woman who made the woman
who made me dark and short,
shy in shadows,
makes cake with all the cream
in the kitchen
the white hits the batter
becomes something else
more delicate on the tongue
my hair is burning in her kitchen
an iron close, hissing my scalp
the static of my hair baking
the knots into smooth and
i stay away from the sun
the water
sit inside, instead
wishing away, sweat
watching the black boys
playing
their hair granite against the
wind of a jumpshot in heat
hearts, rising
with the rhythm of cake
almost can reach
the strands on my head, i think
to my shoulders
this makes me feel more
girl and less black thing
no braids
just straight dangling beauty
revolting to curl back
above my ears
and, no one notices the change
how sweet i have become
how good i am, now
i taste the salt on my lips
wonder if i only taste this rancid,
to my own self
a little girl
has told me that I am black
that my hair won’t grow too
long and I believe
there is something wrong
the woman whose hair is as unruly as mine
says, there is something wrong
when the cake is too
dry, so to always add creamer
to please the palate
so I do
always add something soft
perhaps the swallowing of
all of this
will barely scorch the tongue
perhaps it may float gently
against the cave of
someone’s mouth