Jamilla Vandyke-Bailey

the tongue & pure healing

i could barely see the lilac
and plum seedy bruise, under the
furling of your soft, tepid tongue.

your clumsy mouth kneaded the ripe
flesh he left for me. and so; for you. 
i let you kiss the parts that hurt,
‘cause i needed you to heal me. 

to inherit the parts shucked and 
galled; muddied and languid. a ruse, 
manicured from fear of handguns 
that feel just like drunk, lurching fists. 

i let you touch me because skin
knows how to forget pain. but my 
bones that flinch and refract and shake 
under your fingertips that dance.

i bury my grief in pillows 
filled with moist moans asking for pain. 
pain that leaves me strewn, emblazoned 
in heat that heals, that feels like rain.

it feels good sleeping beneath you
smothered under weight you refuse 
to see. here my bruises look pure
and black and desperate for healing


jamilla vandyke-bailey is a 28-year-old, pro-black feminist who uses her writing to provide a voice for silent traumas. She has had work published in Tasteful Rude, Hash Journal, Santa Clara Review, etc. Her collection of poetry, than we have been, was published by Weasel Press in the fall of 2021.