Tag: black writers

Posted on

I Want to Be Ugly

I feel more and more feral.

I want a different word. Unhinged.

I want to be ugly. I want to be a mess—show my ass.

Bit by bit, I’m letting loose again. Saying more. Saying less. Using my face and body to communicate.

It is noticeable.

I want them to see my wholeness. I won’t shy away.

I play with myself, my thoughts, my perceptions. I challenge. I rebel.

I believe in letting the darkness play out. Something is ready this era. I have wants. I’m human too. And I’m a generous woman.

I want to be afraid and safe.

I’ve been questioning reality and mortality. Getting nowhere close to anything that soothes and makes sense.

I am struggling to surrender to the care I feel.

I’m realizing I move similarly to my dad

In and out.

How I refuse to acknowledge that others are attached to me and that they are a person. How I’ve lost some humanness through the cracks of me.

Emotionally, I intellectualize my emotions and others’. I feel deeply, but I’m not connected to my feelings fully. I float above, observing.

Solitude protected me from rejection.

Solitude protected me from the noise of the world.

Solitude protected my journey to myself.

I ended up alone while becoming everything.
I am questioning everything about relationships.
I see what part of me must die.
A big chunk of my identity.

How pathetic. How humbling these human feelings.

I bite my tongue. Resentment fills my mouth as acid.

Behind the barricades
The grip on surrender

I found my sun
By my bedside
On a river
It didn’t take me
Where I’m going
Oh, the faces
I meet

A piece of her
Crawled from her insides
When they were all fresh and overdue
When nobody wanted her
She couldn’t keep herself

I’ve been delving into a new territory with my art.

Bit by bit, I’m letting loose again.

Posted on

She Who Lives in My Chest

my heart is selfish
and only wants me

She’s abusive,
intrusive.
She swallows me hidden.

I’m in love with her
I trust her

She forces me,
shoves truth
out from my belly
through my clenched teeth

She makes me throw up,
nice and neat.
She edges me to moonstone tears

Even I am sick of me
and my selfish heart

She allows me to fold
as she soaks into my Viking thighs

I wouldn’t still be alive
without her

Posted on

Benevolent Cruel Season

an angel from the sun
who knew when to be lost
she’s benevolent
a cruel season
she began only to end
one day with her
was worth searching for
nothing about her was linear
she ran intoxicatingly
cold plunging into the hearts of her prey
she was found on the last eclipse
making mosaics
writing poems about it
what an imagination she is

Posted on

Weave

i weave tension
as eyes made contact
as our stare shapes
fantasy and eruption
we are careless
we destroy out of delight
our passion with walls poured pride
we became one another’s prey
i am dancing on the world
you buillt it with the grit between our souls’ teeth

Posted on

June 15, 2024

My, my, my, X.
Wind-chimes braid themselves
up and down my core,
shivers down my spine, fingers spaced apart.
My center solidifies and my mind melts—
a proper malfunction…
.
Sometimes I wonder if he sees me.
I see him.
No pressure, no law.
I need X for certain things,
he needs me for certain things.
.
It won’t last,
I hold on to the now.
Let go.
Lean…
.
I think we can be good for each other.
I reject the law
that says only permanence has worth.
Connection is enough,
even if it shifts and dissolves.
.
Our fingertips touch—
flashing life, lust, tenderness.
I’ve never seen his eyes before.
I recognize his touch as my own.
I remember the caress of every lover.
.
I don’t know him
But his wild is my wild.
I honor what we are,
without demanding what we are not.
I want.. I don’t receive..
I’m too solid
There’s something I’d..
I can see..
If he falls

Posted on

The Ground Still Loved Me

I’ve been crying hard.
It’s what I do best.
The ground is loved on by the seeds of clouds.

But I’m fragile,
and I soften in explosion.
When I experience grief,
I face it suddenly.
There is no space

— from Repetitions of Ruin 
(incantations from the same wound)

Posted on

I Try To Unwrite It

Sometimes I reread the poems I wrote for past lovers and feel like… this was too good for them. I try to take it back

Too tender. Too raw. Too sacred.

Bitterness shows up first.

Memory comes next. 

With it the soft ache of truth.

I remember why I wrote it, the little universe we lived in for a while. 

And I remember.

I remember it was theirs. Because a version of me meant it.

Even if they didn’t deserve the whole poem forever.

Some things are real just because they happened.

And some people get lucky enough to be written about.

The love was real, so was the poem.

So I give it back.

Posted on

Ripe and Mean

When we went without
I forgot my name
Things were not good
We’d be ripe and mean
We’d beg and fight
Skin splitting
Play tug of war with our faces
Growl through negative space
I am awake
I am awake
I am awake
I plead
insanity
I give
him control
Still
painting him in contrast