The Lazarus Inside

just tryna’ rise
from a gone body
in a casket made of mahogany future
and media tarnished gold gleaming
forgotten names.
remember we bodies
sold for a dream
we bodies fetishes
rise to their mouths—
everybody
just tryna’ rise
from their tongues
a taste, decadence
chocolate, and brwn,
dark and cranberry
see copy; lick its lips
pronounce it power.
swallow. us
just tryna’ rise
crucifixion mistakes
thorns in my wrist
say don’t wear heart
on your sleeves,
here it is wide open nailed
to wood of my secrets
I am Judas too, promises
always on the verge of
betrayal god I repent.
just tryna’ rise
from 3- day old
mental illness addiction, sickness
Easter beckoning on that good Friday
when trauma came
and I carried her on my back
hunched into the weight of grief.
why I’m just tryna’
rise, why we still
fighting to, trying to
from the sorrow of this brown gown
be resurrected from the world body
that cannot carry my hearts throne.

By Lydia Flores

Biography:

Lydia Flores is a writer and photographer from Harlem, New York.
Her work has been featured in Deaf Poets Society, Downtown Brooklyn, Visceral Brooklyn, Crab Fat Magazine, and several others. Find her at inlightofmysoul.com or @_fearlessocity