It’s always been ground glass, scraping against my insides. I imagine a light held to the place where I open would illuminate a mess of torn flesh, throbbing red-wet.
The violence inflicted by black parents onto their children was born out of both love and a deep, abiding fear for that child’s ability to survive the American caste system that devalues black life.
In this ongoing series, writers in all genres explore the intersection between our literary lives and practices and our BDSM and fetishistic lives and practices.