Untitled

He is kind of an asshole; yet, as deep as the San Andrea's fault.

Yeah... he's intriguing that way.

He's the one that your mama warns you about, and your daddy bought the shotgun for.
The sun and everything it illuminates revolves around him, defying scientific law.
The confidence in his stride commands attention, leaving a string of broken hearts in his trail.

It just takes one look from him, and instantly you're gone.

Lost in the abyss of a million what ifs, and those possible forevers that deep down you know gonna turn into nevers.
But you don't think about the nevers; you're thinking about today. Craving the right nows; those butterflies that swim in your stomach when he catches your glance.
You know it's not worth it, that you should keep moving.

But hey, that little voice inside of you says, "What that hell? Take that chance."

‘Cause when you're together it's like magic.
No, It's better than magic, it's kismet.
No one else in the world exist as you sit and talk about everything that's important and nothing at all at the same time.
There is nothing or no one to interrupt, for once your mind isn't wandering or racing... You're in the moment... He is in the moment.

Until that moment has passed, and you're reminded that you're the last
thing on his mind, until the next time he needs an ear to be lent, a will to be bent, someone to entertain for the moment.
Then you're waiting for the next time to revel in, to hold on to, and to carry you to that next moment, and the one after that, and the one after that.
You know there will be more
‘Cause like you said, he IS an asshole.
But man, are you intrigued

Drunk

 I was intoxicated at the word "hello".
 My every intention was to resist.
 To never drink you in. To never let you pass my lips.
 But, oh, look at me now.: succumbing to my addiction.
 Simultaneously, you are the cure and the affliction.
 I'm Drowning in a glass of you.

Tracing the lines of you mouth as I drink from your cup.
Your touch, the touch of intention.
Your skin warm against mine.
Like 100 volcanoes ready to erupt.

Can I get a refill of what your serving?
One taste could never be enough
I want to be consumed by you, be taken over.
Guide me with your inner light.
Shine so bright that I'm blinded by your aura.

Teach my body to respond only to your look, your touch, your kiss.
Wash over me.
Cleanse me with your caresses.
Give me new life with every touch of your lips.

I'm filled to the brim with desire.
A thirst that can only be quenched by multiple glasses of you.
Wait, did I say glasses?
Fuck that, this addiction calls for bottles.
Fill my wine cellar with multiple.
This affliction does not require rehab, simply a lifetime of inebriation.

Anomaly

"Your so pretty- you know, for a black girl."

"Your so articulate and astute-considering."

"I mean, I don't really consider you black."

"I'm just saying you're not the "typical" black girl!"

Really? How do you expect me to respond to that?

Do you really anticipate a thank you?

I mean, You say these words like you're paying me a compliment; like I'm supposed to be grateful that I don't fit a stereotype that society has spoon-fed you about black women.

Am I supposed to be flattered amidst your back handed admiration?

Am I supposed to feel gracious that despite my blackness you've found something in me worth your attention?

Well, let me tell you that I am not, and I don't.

Your compliments say more about your lack of appreciation for the array of complexities that is the black woman than your regard for my beauty or intelligence.

You comment on my full lips, my high cheekbones, how "good I look for my age", how naturally I possess these attributes that others pay money for, or use make up tricks to achieve.

"Must be luck, or at least good genes."

Look around you, "black don't crack",

Despite the weight of the world we carry on my backs.

My attractiveness, my intellect , my charisma, my magic is not in spite of my blackness; I assure you that it is because of it.

Being a black child in America meant studying extra hours learning "American history", as well as our own.

Cause Lord knows there were gaps and I wasn't going to find the answers in the district approved textbooks.

It meant learning your literary canon on school time, and on mine discovering that for every Hawthorne there is a Wheatley, for every Hemingway and Whitman there is a Hurston and a Hughes.

Being a black woman in America means working harder than our peers because our intellectual competence just may be second-guessed.

It means being comfortable and confident in your own skin despite mainstream society pointing out all the reasons that you shouldn't.

It means teaching our daughters to do all of these things whilst not dropping their crowns.

I stand next to millions just like me, black women world wide

We dispel your stereotypes

proving that the beautiful, intelligent, articulate, educated black women in not a myth.

I am not some anomaly.

I stand here and tell you that we are reality.

Bleeding Heart

History does not make my heart swell with pride

My heart bleeds history

With every lesson learned a cut has been made

It's no wonder that I'm bleeding out

Ready to give up on this country

that has given up on my people, my brothers, my sons.

But, this is nothing new

We've seen this before

2016 is looking like more 1916 except

nooses have been traded in for guns

And the strange fruit that once hung from the trees

Is now hunted down, shot and left to bleed out on the streets

The tactics have changed. But the results remain the same.

Someone's son, father, husband (maybe all three) will have died in vain.

My heart bleeds a history that band-aids cannot heal.

And still, for every cut, there is a makeshift bandage:

Tamir, Trayvon, Alston, Philando

Blood continues to soak through

Every other day there is a new name to engrave

Another person's memory to save

I carry these names on my bleeding heart

This mother of sons who are black and brown

cannot help but beg when I pray that

there isn't a bandage that will read Taj or Joaquin someday.