Kensington Market Prophet


He told me I was beautiful, gorgeous,

crowned me the princess of Africa,

and I guess he would know about beauty

since his name was Diamond

and he’d know if I had royalty in me

since he’d been there before,

gone to that great continent  to explore—

but I said no, I’m nothing special, I’m just a kid—

and he said that was the point

because I wasn’t old enough to be queen yet—

so I said touché—

and he said I would have beautiful children, precious babies,

strong and healthy; and that the nine months

would be gruesome and painful and shitty

but once it was all over and I came to from the pain

of giving birth, of pushing out life,

when the trauma of the ordeal, of having so much taken

from me,

when my head had cleared and I could think clearly again;

at the first sight of my child, the feel of holding

the weight of my baby in my arms,

the rest of the world would fall away

and nothing else would matter because Look!

Look at this beautiful being I have made!

And then I didn’t say anything,

because I wondered if maybe, maybe, what if

God had said the same thing when He made me. 


About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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