She doesn’t know what she wants the store clerk selling FLOW cell phones, mostly cards and talking down to the men in her life. So to say her style matches the company brand, a flow that is just going, fluent with no sign of destination, a poor signal sense of direction in the clear view. Blurred young bird flying low afraid of the storms of life, her lipstick is not her size, she’s just a child, innocent and incapable, searching for love in a place where it is omitted and I have never seen a tender touch here, heard the words of a kind hearted fellow, they all want one thing, a taste of the grape so they keep picking until the sweetened becomes displeased, its sugar unsavoring. They all want one thing from this sylphlike figure, could it be just her, oh I wish it were… What do I know? Sure it has to her precious pride for these beard and muscles, up and between the legs, all she possesses in her spandex, cotton, victoria secret seat. She walks holy, the groove of a virgin, she struts down the aisles of this grocery mart with a warm, colossal, soft heart and a cosmetic face that rarely smiles in my new home from 10am to 8pm. Black Opal’s foundation is eligible to crumbling, she’s always minutes away from falling in her speech however, somehow she manages to catch herself, standing corrected. The one thing saving her. A chef for a man, preparing jealously… a meal she doesn’t enjoy, her hunger is thirst for meeting and becoming accustomed to and with, not just anyone I suppose. She doesn’t know what she wants in her red shade everlasting matte running dry of one’s self, still she flows to and fro, waving hi, our conversation exceeds the general “just acquaintance” as if I have known her all my spent years leading up to now. Black Opal white T and blue jeans, uncertain of her 21 and where she wants to be, all is said when she doesn’t speak, lying to herself in a concrete form. I know this: the world of love, I know this: growing up. I know this… Her personality vomits on you, spilling her confidence. Air-conditioned face dabbed with concealer and powder, her height is an image of her short coming decisions and her voice is drawn to only one conclusion “I don’t know this.” She still has a lot of growing to do, she’s reaching but the sun is being blocked by all the fucked up misleading men she has had watering, watered her roots. No sunshine for the murky girl living in a fast turning world.
— Lorris Shurriah, Jamaica