You’re not coming, and it hurts my heart

Missing you has turned into a dull ache

Throbbing, ever present, in the back of my wanting

Trying not to miss you is like trying not to breathe

I can trick myself for a moment,

But only until panic catches in my throat and

I breathe in your memory in huge,

desperate gulps.

Wise Black Woman

It is not my duty to make you a better person.

This blackness was not
Gifted to me to better you.
To better yourself from knowing
Me, is an honor I gratefully accept

Do not misunderstand that
Gratitude for purpose – intent.

I walk out my days in this skin,
Constantly learning the causes and
Effects it imparts on the world Around me.

Yes, I walk out my days in the
Hope of leaving each place better – wiser.

I do not, however, seek to exist as
A token – an accessory.

Do not look to me to check your
Ignorance – temper your bigotry.
It is not my purpose to
Correct your words and actions

Though make no mistake – I will.

I will root out your bigoted remarks
And throw them in your face,
With the utmost eloquence and grace.

I am a docile sort – a gentle sort;
Until it goes too far
Until you cast me as the Helper –

The Wise Black Woman.

I am black, and I am a
Woman.  I am not however, an
Actor in your play.

Today I opened my eyes and
Found myself mid scene,
Playing a role I did not consent to;

So, I worked out the scene, spat out my lines
And exited stage left – if the show
Must to go on, it must go on

Without me.


I read about the language of the stars, and you creep into my mind.

Before I can understand what my body is doing, warmth spreads throughout my form.

Humming, tingling, floating.

My eyes drift shut, lids containing worlds beneath them.  The world which I enter holds a version of you that desires me.

This you, sighs when my hand rests upon your face, rush of air pushed from your lungs which you were not even aware you had collected.

This you missed me as much as the deepest part of my soul missed you.  In this world I am mad for you, and you for me.

I touch your face and you press it against my palm.

When our lips meet, it is for the first time, and oh ! how exquisite they feel! How warm and soft and right.

We have been apart too long and our bodies tell us so. 

I fall into you and happily, you to me, otherwise I fear we may have toppled over.

But the meeting of our lips was nothing like the meeting of our thighs.

Our hands diving to deep, wet, musky spaces, fingers splaying and pressing and touching and exploring.

How have we never known one another this way ?  This is certainly what bliss feels like.

At once light, floating, grounded, separate, whole, present.

Our fingers are travelers now, explorers.  They delve into spaces I have only dreamt about in the dark corners of my wanting. 

Here they are merged with you, seeking out the secrets of your flesh, your soul.  Wanting to know you deeply, wholly.

My arm wraps itself about your waist and cups your thigh, pulling you to me, begging you to let me go deeper, know you longer.

I feel your body shudder, arch itself impossibly further into me, and I know your secret.  I reached inside of you and was granted access to your soul.

It is upon these walls that your secret is written.  My fingers memorize every word, before they reluctantly make their journey home.

I open my eyes.

Only a fantasy. Single tear slips from my eye.  I remember why the gates to my heart are so securely shut.

I turn my attention back to the stars. Too many nights end this way.


I am wavering. Loving kindness has only gotten me so far.  Rage bubbles to the surface.  Rage which washes over my entire being and wraps itself around my soul. This rage is armour. This rage shields me from the earth shaking ignorance which constantly attacks my being.

Today, I managed to press this rage down.  I massaged the knots growing inside and I let them dissipate.

Then I heard those words.  Words which shot my rage to the surface and threw it like a force-field around me, throwing everyone and everything back; I flew from where I sat and spat out my dissent. How dare they utter those words in my presence ?! Do not ever utter that sentence again. It is baffling to me that they tried to justify the utterance. How dare they?! How dare they.  I know how they dare. I am reminded every day. Every. Single. Day. My rage covers me. My rage protects me.

Loving kindness can wait, today, my rage keeps me safe.

New Life

At times, I find that it is difficult for me to write.  I attribute this to the fact that I attach a lot of meaning into the words that I put onto paper.

There is power in them.  True, thoughts in and of themselves are powerful things, with the ability to mold and shape our perceptions, and therefore, our lives.

But, by putting those thoughts to print, it magnifies their intensity.  So many thoughts are had in a day, a minute, a second. 

By writing them down, not only are we interacting with them, giving new life; but we are making it possible to revisit them.  Reinvent, mull our thoughts over – expand, and thus, give them new existence.