young east africans

To Put a Ring (Young East African Girl)

I tried to put a ring
on the girl who runs rings
round every free dick on campus:

She can bust it better
than any scarlet letter, self-conscious
fair weather woman of the world,
but I learned,
never bust the bank
for a girl who busts it open
before she thinks—
who uses sex to numb the sadness,
who changes her accent
based on where her ass is,
on who’s beneath her.

And when I’m pumping the speakers
she’s scuffing my sneakers,
but I still want to eat her,
and that’s the worst thing,

that I don’t regret the proverbial ring
on her left hand.
In fact, I can
still tell you how she stands
with her left hip dipped
and a thin-lipped smile;
and that she runs three miles
before dinner and never takes dessert;
and that she feels hurt when it rains
because she feels like God betrayed
the sun.
I can tell you she’s not the only one

who numbs with drugs,
who pays with sex and not love
and gives no receipt.
She never asked me

to pry, but I had to be that guy
and save her
so I could say that I did it,
that I caught a bad bitch
so I could always hit it,
that I paid for the pussy,
crossed it off my wishlist—
but when she didn’t need me
or my “nobility”
I branded homegirl a homegrown ho
and blacklisted the black bitch.

When really, I’m just hurting.
Because under all my stupid flirting
I care
deeper than I care to share.
I still prefer her eyes over her thighs,
I’d rather ask about her class
than her ass,
and I’d rather help her rest
than fondle her chest,

but I guess I went left
when I should have chosen right by her.
Done right by her,
moved right by her.
I was supposed to goodnight and goodbye her
but I couldn’t just try her.
I had to try and buy her.

And when she declined the ring,
I cried, Don’t wife the ho.
Don’t wife the ho.
But at the end of the day, she’s still
the only one I really want to know.

Made with SoundCloud