“There was a time…”
I drop Aerosmith right into the beat.
Celie turns, hooked.
She doesn’t stop me. She knows the rules.
Third verse ofCryin’snaps into the bars.
Now it's spilling, and there's no stopping it.
Salt-N-Pepa on the outside,
Aerosmith on the bone,
every word bending to the beat,
reshaped to fit the bite.
I’m rapping Cryin’now, and Celie’s glowing.
“Only you, Allison Taylor. Genre smashin’.”
I wink, not stopping.
It’s both a problem and a rule:
can’t quit if it’s pouring out of you.
Then Celie bumps my arm—“Yo.”
She’s pointing down the alley, grinning.
I turn, the rap flowing, slower now.
There’s a girl posted up against the brick,
one leg hitched over the shoulder of some guy.
He’s on his knees,
face buried between her thighs.
She’s got her hands tangled in his hair,
guiding like a leash.
Celie throws her palm up at the scene,
laughing in disbelief.
“Ain’t even mad, but—damn.
“Welcome to New York.”
I step deeper into the mouth of the alley.
Then flipCryin’back to its roots?—
