It was the thought of you that 
caused the first eruption to take place
No amount of water could put out the 
Phoenix that burns within me
Cloaked with your soft skin, 
I felt invincible
I felt supported
I felt wanted by
your brown eyes
your sweet lips
left ringing sensations
that only me and God could hear

The second eruption was a stronger craving
a deeper desire
fermented, elongated, permanent
Your touch knows me
Melts me
until your cocoa butter settles in 
I found Safety
I found Renewal 
-Arnelle W

Dear BK boy who can dance, 
thank you for being the best dance partner
for moving your hips in tune with hers,
 for paying attention to the way she whines, ticks, or drops,
for learning, for mustering the courage to dance with her
even as her unfamiliar eyes looked back at yours with uncertainty.

Once you found her, BK boy, she liked the way you moved to dancehall and soca.
thanks for respecting her body, for creating chemistry and letting it stay between you and her,
ya´ll painted an amateur canvas.
skin on skin contact,
soft lotion of the back, hold of the hips, whine to the side, twerksum,
gentleness, 
in sync
completely

BK boy you smile close to her ear, she leans back on you
Your arm muscles cover her stature, your breath cuddles her neck.
Couple for the night, both thanking the moonlight for how much ya´ll love to dance
Hearts racing, legs calling for a break, both whisper a prayer to change le beat, 
A wish is coincidently granted.
a slow whine, tick tock, a Soca whine, move two steps.
By now BK boy who can dance, she's found a level of comfort in you.
Relaxed muscles, no need to outperform, no need to please the other,
she's got you or is it the other way around?
Young hearts cannot tell.
Either way she is grateful, happy with generalizing 
BK boys know how to dance

First time gazing into the other's colored brown eyes.
they tell each other so.
thank you for a first impression. it will memorable, perhaps unforgettable.
Party done
Shoes, legs, hips, backs, all swarm the streets of East Flatbush.
Smell of jerk, curry, oxtail, sweat, West-Indian accents muddle 
Night air refreshes her thoughts as she walks home in bliss 

Sincerely,
​BK  girl
-Arnelle W.

​Previously published in The ​Flawless Magazine - The Comfort Issue
https://issuu.com/flawless-mag/docs/thecomfortissue/75

I woke up again with my cheeks sore
bones still stiff from the way they held up
my countenance in a mood of bliss
an un-calculated mood
that allowed me to fall asleep
lids closed,
lips pressed together 
and softly lifted
Eyebrows relaxed 
forehead no longer creased
So my pulse continued beating to the relief I felt. 

Insecurity became quiet
It felt strange, weird to be: Comfortable
To be reconfigured as light beams that took time to
decorate the outer layer of my brown-sugared skin
To be redesigned as WOKE,
as beautiful spelled out from 
the crown of my head to the
soles of my feet

Who painted me?
It's Permanent. 
Who tattooed me?

Tippy-toes pointed, made me taller as I extended my black silhouette
into the depths of the sky
I choose to be accepted.
I curled my frame, 
framing U closer to my core as L took the lead and 
B became the base of a strong foundation 

My body loved the way BEAUTIFUL became an accent 
no matter the direction I turned
Louder was happiness
Louder was it okay to be free
To sway, to dance, to whine, to shake, to arch, to pray
My pulse matched my heart's symphony as both harmonized 
the way
Lids closed
Lips pressed together 
and softly lifted 
Eyebrows relaxed 
Forehead no longer creased 
Dreamy, I imagined you writing the words I and AM and LOVE.
-Arnelle W.

I remember when you sat in the corner of our ballet, tap, and jazz,
I remember how deeply confused you were when another 9 year old told you
"my dad told me to stay away from black people"
I remember you were just getting comfortable in your skin,
just liking the way your hips, legs, feet danced, had made you smile
I remember when you were picked on in middle school
and names like darkie, ugly, tagged you and you always became it
I remember you burned pictures of yourself because you disliked the image that looked back
I remember when you grew cold, an attitude that said "I was the devil"
but i always forgave you

Oh I remember when you gained more boobs then me, more butt then me
and disliked the gut that jiggled above the waistline
I remember you stood for years in front of the mirror hoping to see a blink of change
 
I remember you defining what you wanted to be when you grew up
Years in front of the tv analyzing characters and writing your own personal stories
intrigued you
Changed you
Created virtual realities more satisfying than the ones here
Cause over and over you said, "I am going to have my own tv show one day"

But sister, sister
I never saw you fully love yourself
I never saw you fully love yourself
And I wonder when you'll say I am enough
Cause I see how worthy you are
And so I strengthen my bond with you
I see you defining happy in all your imperfections
I see you flushing all your haters down the ugly white toilet
I see you embracing your curves
and looking at flesh and meat as part of your being
I see you comfortable in that dark skin
and painting it red and gold
I see you laughing at your own jokes because you kept little amber Alive
I see you inspiring hearts like mine

Yes sister,
I see you unconditionally loving yourself
I see you proud of yourself
In awe with what you've created on that tv screen
You made your own colors and dreams come true
Inside our mantra we make "Sister, sister" our love !
-AW

Fresh hair embodies a soft glow, illuminates plain water, and dresses the body.
Versatile enough, its features are irreplaceable.
Fresh hair sings health, intakes vitamins of the alphabet, the most beautiful of them all Maimouna
She enables it to dance in an aroma of coconuts and cherries, 
leaving multicolored petals of her scent to resonate on anyone who's in her vicinity and healing anyone she breathes love to
Fresh hair isn't healthy without her, it relies on her radiance
Fresh hair seduces 
You ever play hard to get with it? 
You cannot win
It is a lotus and you are addicted
Your taste buds reject, your eyes won't close, and your nose is weak

It is not the singing of birds that wake me up, 
but the sound of heavy feet running up and down the sidewalk.
The sound of high-pitch puberty voices laughing and West Indian accents scolding youth that rings loudly like an alarm-clock to my ears. 
I was raised on a wide and long one-way block with luscious trees that expanded 
but grew small as my legs extended effortlessly, 
playing jump-rope and scavenger hunt. 
I knew every infrastructure and the condiments that lived on either side.

Thick clouds of acid air wraps around my throat, 
pulls at the innocent hairs of my nostrils, and drains the fresh scent out
from the pathway of my lungs as I hop-scotch to each pavement. 
The fortress built for my nose grows weak with every soldier of fresh scent down, due to the 4,000 chemical weight of this potent smell uprooting the entrance of the fort. 
The wind continues to act against me as it blows more acetone, the very thing I remove the paint from my nails with into the airway of my lungs,  ignoring my cry to be alive.
I hop-scotch to each pavement as more exhales full of ammonia  refuse to clean the fluids around my body, but pollute my ability to breathe. 
Another one lighted, held firm to the lips releases arsenic, used in insecticides, debasing my form of existence to that of an insect, killing the unborn eggs in my ovaries as I hop-scotch to the next pavement on my left. 
I picture my ovaries shrinking, becoming inactive, and turning black like tar. 
And soon, 70 percent of this tar leeches itself to the core of my female reproductive system, dosing detrimental increments into the brains of my future children.
I hop-scotch faster to get away from the highly poisonous cadmium, a metal used in batteries as my ears become dead to sound.
Cadmium does not start the battery of my heart, it encrypts the hardware system of my soul to a code unknown to the cells of my body, and instructs cyanide to poison more and more of me. 

Emotions like pain,
from the sky they rain,
wetting me until I’m soaked and aching all over, 
desperately trying to find that R-righteousness to secure me, 
that E-everlasting faith God has shown me,
M-mercury so potent it sticks and remains toxic,
E-enter, intercede, take control, 
D-drive the demon that tries to capture me,
away, away I Y-yell in hopes my voice is heard, pierced into the 

One million, un millón, un million. 
No matter what language I try to beautify this number, it still carries a heavy
immovable burden on my heart, 
as I process the six zeros in the number of no high-school diploma feet walking all over this particular pavement called education. 
A pavement so gum-tatted and worn down in broken neighborhoods, 
but polished well in green dollar ones, 
gets me agitated, frustrated, and sad that life is reality. 
As an 18, female, black Guyanese American, college student, I sit back in the comfort of my home and dwell on the notion that I made it. 
Made it through a battlefield: taking in swords from opponents name calling me Oreo.
Bleeding at the sides as I get pass standardized tests, SATs, college applications, and unplanned pregnancies common at my age. 
Running, listening to red drops fall of gang violence, drugs, scamming, drop outs on the back of my white shirt, as I do this all just to avoid
being a statistic. 
Why do I have to "make it" in America that's suppose to be my freedom, 
my pursuit of happiness, 
but yet many of its young Black and Latino population is in prison.

Makeup brush pampers the part I want to cover most, 
as I spend more time creating a new picture, than telling myself I'm already beautiful. 
My enemy, the mirror, perfectly clean and crafted hangs mockingly,
and points out the irritated, blemished painting. 
My eyes borrowed from a bald eagle spots ugly prey from miles away and swoops to try to kill it. 
Like a conqueror it sees all things sharp, dismantling food full of confidence. 
The rich, nurturing appetite that I obtain I see shredding behind the pounds of makeup,
behind the embroidery of the brush. 
I see myself shredding away and looking at those infant shreds as grossly inferior. 
How easy it is for young girls and women alike to get lost in a society of makeup and perfect appeal? 
In pressure so immense like the earth's  core, we cannot see it.
How many countless embroidery brushes pampered your face? To please who? 
How many volumes of the cover-up have liquidated your skin and you called it beauty?
My eyes borrowed from a bald eagle stared at me nakedly as I put my own brush down.