Strength

Blackness is not a thing that is easy

It builds you

Brick by brick

Bricks hurled at windows and cars and sculls and arms

The same arms that will pick up those bricks

Slather them in mortar and add them to the strength that is our being

We all wear it differently

Own it differently

This blackness

But its there

In our blood and our bones

To be black is to know a sorrow so deep it stems from a place that has no end

No true beginning

Just pulls us forward

It’s fire that burns beneath our skin

Lighting us up

Running like lava through our veins

A constant promise

An ever waiting truth

Crafting: 301

I don’t know how to rewrite my narrative

I don’t know if that’s true

I dont know where to start

I dont know if thats true either

What do I know then ?

I know that loving myself is going to be hard

Loving myself is going to take work. It will require me to breakdown a lot of ideas I have about myself. Loving myself will require me to unlearn destructive behavior patterns and learn the cause and affect they have on my life. Loving myself  will require me to have grace and loving tenderness with and for myself, in all my incarnations.

Meandering

I don’t know if what I am is manic

When I spill all over the place

Seem to spatter onto whatever I can find for canvas

Wild, sporadic

Without reason, but with intent

But the calculations run in the background

Hidden from me

Negative space

Writing this i am aware i am mixing metaphors

I am trying to decide if i care

I care too much and what I mean by that is i care too little

Grilling away at the smallest details

I lost where I started.

Sometimes, I step in or outside of myself and  wonder how I got here, look around my room and wonder who chose to put that picture on the wall, or who drank that tea?

Not me.

Dear white boy,

Do “I hate you” and “I love you” mean the same to you?

Because it seems to me at times, you may confuse the two

You’re the type of boy who’d fuck me thinking “Nigger”

Who’d ask again and again if black men’s cocks are bigger

I see you

Walking like you own the place,

Like god cried in the heavens the day that your face

Cracked open your mother’s legs so you could stand before me and say

“I hate you”

Boy, Imma laugh in your face.

To the woman ogling us at the bar:

I bet we turn you on

I’m sorry to take it there,

But that’s just how it is

Imagine!

Three queers on a couch

Splayed out across one another

Cuddled, cozy, content

Unafraid of your stare,

Welcoming it even

Something curious

To poke and

Mock and wonder at

We think,

“I wonder what’s hidden beneath it?”

This fluttering stare,

Are you dissatisfied  with your mediocre?

Contemplating

What other roads you wanted to take ?

Were too afraid to take?

Made too many mistakes to make?

Afraid of the fluttering stares

From women and husbands in

Bars and parks

And streets and shops

And hospitals and schools and

Afraid of being beaten into

Submission day after day,

Afraid of a world which tells you,

“You can’t love this way.”

Because society says it should be so

“And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

Or so they say

Instead, you look across the table

Play with your straw

And wonder

At the life you chose your partner

Sits across from you, guzzling beer

Absently you notice some of it

Miss his mouth

Dribble down his chin onto his shirt

You forgotten, him oblivious

His eyes refuse to part

From the large screen fixed above the bar

You sigh, telling yourself

You’re happy, you’re content,

You have a good life

An old, faded mantra

Your eyes flick back to us

And we think,

I bet we turn you on.

Fusion

I am angry. Furious, it would seem. That is this pain that has been lurking beneath the surface of my skin.

I smashed my body yesterday and I want to do it again. To feel it again. That abandon. That adrenaline. To feel another part of myself speak. I’d like to hear what they have to say. Reckless and rageful and they have been missing for quite some time.

I’m glad they finally showed up.

Hazy.


The other night I was sitting at the bar

Talking to a person who I am seeing, but not dating
Because these days, that actually makes a difference

We were talking about the space in between
Where thoughts happen and where they occur

What I mean is, the thought that inspires the thing
And the place where that thing becomes itself

Which is the truth?
Where is the truth?

The truth is in the space between

Which we will never fully grasp
Never quite see or catch
Hazy, but
It is also in the beginning and ending
Truth lives in all three
Birth and death
Life being, of course, the space between

What we can’t see
Where we can’t see

I dreamt I went shopping the other night
I was walking down the aisles of a grocery store
The light was bright, garish
Overwhelming

I couldn’t find what I was looking for
I can never find what I am looking for

I’m the type of person who has difficulty lighting a cigarette
Always standing in the wind, stifling the flame
I strike the flint once, twice, three times before shifting
Positions

Trying again.