By Amanda "Meta-Physical" Skeete
Broken bits of silk-screened scenarios threaded tight the gold rope necklace your great-uncle Tom recieved birthdays ago, the forget-me-knot bow of what humanity forgot to eradicate mere decades ago, the synching of wind-pipes and the plucking of forbidden fruits from the front lawn where scorch marks criss-cross the burned bark of a tree which never stands far from its fallen apple, the arrow William Tell and later Newton struck the fear of spliced gravity with protruding from the Adam.
If it is humanity which doubles as the edged sword of inhumane human management then it is also true that we raise our enamored selves from the dead as widows do from wasted webs on winded willows, so reflected in the window is the widow black whom you name the source of all evils, not just in color but for her busty blood-lusty thirsting drive for perpetuating and fermenting till ripe the black stereotypes that old albino devil keeps trying to bury alive and zombify, that we black women tend to devour dark loves.
But if Black Widows we be, then the title is not self-proclaimed.
In the painstaking making of names we must become what we speak, so if your speech is in the gutter then the mind must surely follow, which leaves little else but garbage for us Black Widows to swallow - so these dark loves are really types of filth-exuding stereos where biters go to fill poked holes in hip-hop harems of hoes, clothes, and blow, so, Black Widows seem to believe that they are what they eat and end up becoming this consumer of sweetly-stenched defeated hood-rats who swim in and swallow gutter speech from the punctured breech of pock-marked bass-heavy baby-booming boom-box radio hype-beasts.
That is to say, a Black Widow is also a leech.
But I refuse to be the eight-legged bulbous black-bottomed web-wig-weaver of double-dutch dreams with bubble-gum pink fingertips which pinch the ghosts of future spliffs, with pig-tails, doo-doo braids, or the whip-lashed sheen-soaked over-burdened worker of cornrows, the cotton-picker, the picked nose of little girls aspiring to be that brick rose, the feathered band-aide of scraped knees from sidewalks where bended prostitutes in alleyways were certainly not meant to be, but it's the same place we used to believe our knight in shining armor would swoop to and make our monsters flee.
In reality, our Dark Knights are dark nights of self-destruction, the open-palm open invitation of secret sins to our bedrooms where only lustful lustrous moon-maidens bare witness to this quiet devastation of sisters with black faces brimming starry-eyed the twinkle of perpetuation, affirming the firm belief that wide-thighed nights are devastating stereotypes which conclude in racial degradation, where we only believed that to devour dark loves within the beauty of our blackness would erase the hatred of self without and escalate us straight to oblivious elation.
To be a Black Widow is to be in constant depravation.
This conclusion should close the bedroom portal where widows wail at their painless window reflections whilst weaving wistful whisps of webs wherein entraps the Flyest lord of them flies. The dark love Black Widows work so hard to devour is an obsessive destruction we women should attempt to defeat. Not as depraved leeches of lovers lost in sheets, not as consumers consuming soley in vain of ever being complete, not as wheels in heels who's drive is to perpetuate inhumane stereotypically black beliefs - but as miracle workers we witches become weilding hip-switching drop-jaw heart-aching magicks of beauty manifest as the purest of shadows -
For Black Widows are Black Women who can only love in the shallows.