She was born out of necessity. It wasn’t a formal affair or a planned event; Melrose came into this world as means of escape. She was created to be the voice. The ‘no’, the fight back and the fearless Melrose would be the reason Luna didn’t have to be quiet.
Luna, the youngest of three girls and her sisters were both nearly 10 years older than she. In many ways, she felt alone. When she was learning her way around this life thing, they were on their way out of the house. When she was coming of age and going through puberty, they were partying in college and enjoying their newfound freedom. Her at home life resembled that of an only child filled with self-entertainment, artistic creation, and music.
Her parents were divorced and shared custody, although Luna spent as much time as she could at her dad’s house. This wasn’t because she was the proverbial ‘daddy’s girl.’ In fact, it was the polar opposite; Luna and her father didn’t get along well at all. They started butting heads early when she was about 8 years old. At the time her older sisters were 17 and 18, both graduating high school at the same time, with high honors. Lennox, their father, literally doted on her elder daughters. His pride could be felt as easy as placing your hand on his chest. Lennox Gold, also known in the area as “Spin” for his unique ability to spin like MJ with gym shoes on, loved his girls Lannete and LeAundra. Luna, on the other hand, was a toss-up day-to-day.
She would later come to the belief that his palpable disdain for her existed because she did; simply put. Luna came into the world nine years after what her parents expected to be their last child. They not only wanted two kids but they could afford two kids. When Luna popped up all needy and hungry, she was welcomed by her mother, but her father saw her as a leech of all things from love to money. “Because of you, I had to work an extra job” was a phrase he often bellowed toward her during heated disagreements.
But as life would have it, the very love Lennox kept shrouded in secrecy for Luna was the love she so desperately wanted and actively sought. Her mother and father separated just before her 6th birthday and by the time she had turned seven, they were divorced and splitting holidays, birthdays and weeks up on a family scheduled that hung on both sides of the double door refrigerator at her mother’s house. Her mom, Sydney Square-Gold, didn’t want anyone to have an excuse to say they didn’t know. Whether you were getting cold milk or hard ice cream, you will know where you are to be”, her mother would say.
Both of her sisters left for school that fall, so this schedule only pertained to Luna. As often as she could get her mother to agree with, she would be with her father. Luna and her mother had an exquisite relationship and she loved her mother dearly. She never questioned her mother’s love or wondered if she needed to be doing something or become someone else to earn her affection. Those sentiments pertained only to her father, and because of that, she didn’t feel like she needed to be at home with Ms. Gold anymore but rather, at her father’s house, becoming.
And every time was the same. She would arrive with her bags to a clean room as she always left her small bedroom tidy and start working on cleaning her Lennox’s house and preparing dinner. It may seem like a lot for an 8-year-old, but Luna didn’t have time to think about her age. She was focused on love.
She spent years attempting to morph herself into her own version of her sisters in hopes that it would sway his attention. Her father worked late at an automotive plant and in her mind, him walking in the door to a fresh house and hot food was a way to earn her stripes. There were days when it seemed to work but most times, he would barely acknowledge she was there or had done anything special. She never stopped trying. Even in her teenage years, Luna wanted her father’s love.
Her father, however, wanted Luna.
He was annoyed that he had her.
He was angry that he couldn’t have her.
He also recognized her willingness to do anything for him, so when Luna was 15, he decided to give her something to do.
I miss you baby… I’m sad I haven’t received my correspondence I was promised.. I’m a cheerleader of your gift and blessing to paint pictures through words. I’m perplexed by your continued disdain for your most loving ex you’ll ever meet…. I know that is hilarious to you…. I follow you and your compositions when I’m able and I’m a fan of your growth… I speak in this fashion because I don’t particularly agree with the word proud of someone.. I believe that is reserved for parents and elders when expressing there positive feelings for there offspring or younger family… I always knew you’d provide positive feedback for youth as I do also from the belly of the beast… I miss you though real spit… I root for you in all your endeavors know that! I am upset that I have been cut off from every other outlet in order to converse with you… I love you Kendria and I don’t practice this relentless pursuit of anyone I’m content with who I am and not whom I used to be. What I need from you is a consensus as a adult that you no longer want to hear from me and I will respect your wishes love. Peace and love.
Can someone identify this lying MF because I need to know where to ship my Fuck You to.
Word to the unwise: I don’t care about what you talmbout.
Back TF off of me for good. My heart and my love is no longer a game piece for niggaopoly.
That’s not personal, that’s a whole blanket statement.
As if I were candy paint decorating his suit jacket
Cherry red on suicide doors
My sepia arm dripping in jewels like daytime glitter.
Alternating from faux to French diamonds,
Because every girl needs costume and real jewels.
Accessorizing his east side accent like English language blanketing German subtitles,
the paparazzi loved the way we made an entry,
Arms criss crossing melanins.
We looked fly together
But I was interlocking elbows with an anchor that could halt the Titanic….”
~nomaD, J.York, October 2018
To know me is to know how much I love pictures. I come from a picture taking family. My grandmother owned all the cameras and never fell short of snapping her favorite polaroid to capture photos of the moment. It’s been almost a year since she passed and the one thing I’ve wanted to do was go to her house and look at her old picture books. I know if I do, all those people will come alive in her dining room for me one more time.
Pictures are my thing and it’s no secret that I had hoop dreams of learning photography and specializing in black and white shots. I have several clouds saving pictures for me, including Google and Amazon, as well as a site called Smugmug that I found years ago. My photos automatically upload to these clouds so there is never a shot or video that gets deleted w/o the ability to be recovered from somewhere. As of recently, the newest social trend is to give us a glimpse back in the past. It started out on Facebook but now Google and Prime (as well as others I’m sure) have made it where you can check out the photos you took from “on this day”, circa whatever year. Every day for the past few months, I log onto Prime and do something I’ve never been good at doing: deleting pictures. I delete every and any trace of photos that have my ex in them, no matter how fly the picture looks. On Google, you can do a face recognition, so I did that and removed him completely from my Google cloud. Prime requires me to do this every time they prompt me with a flashback. And I oblige it, daily. Matter a fact, let me check now.
I do this daily. I remove all evidence of him from my life and from inadvertently “popping TF up” when I least expect it. I know I can’t possibly scrub my IG and FB page clean without some help, but the least I can do is get those fauxtoshoots off my clouds. All my clouds are too high up to be holding onto this many pictures of Polyester Peter. But you know why there are so many pictures (there are HUNDREDS)? Because we looked so good together. I mean, we looked F L Y !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
On our worst days, we could snap a picture that would make my eyes flutter hard enough to kick the 808s in my heart. He was always game to snap as many pictures as I wanted him to. I thought he was just as eager and excited to see us frozen in beauty the way we would be. It wasn’t for ‘likes’ or for public consumption although I made the mistake of sharing our flyness with the world (something that will NEVER happen again. My weddings guests will have to read braille to know what’s happening).
I just loved him. I love pictures. We were fly. It was a triple lutz win worthy of an audience!
But that’s all we ended up being: fly LOOKING.
We were anything but mid-flight.
Yep. We were a crash that looked pretty during the fall. The reality was I was holding hands with a gorgeous weight. For all the times I stared intentionally into his eyes, I fail to understand how I couldn’t see the lies I was being told or the fact that he was an anchor on my hand. A body of bricks. Concrete love, and I was lost in his jungle putting on makeup and pretty dresses.
Which brings me to the point (finally) of this blog.
It is all too possible to fall in love with a fly ass weight. What does this mean? It means the person (male or female) that you have entered into a relationship with has all your love but no wings, no feathers and no ability to help you fly. No matter how hard you pull them in the direction of up, they will always bring you down. It might not necessarily be on purpose at the onslaught, but there comes a point in the relationship where I believe they make a choice to love you ill and pull you towards ashes and dust. I happen to believe if we are “returned” to Earth after our demise, six feet back into the ground, then our lives are not meant to be lived there; we are supposed to be on the up and up until they lower our caskets or spread our ashes. But there are times when we meet and fall in love with people who can only offer us first base. As the relationship progresses, you start to see the ship isn’t moving and every time you cut the anchor free, another hindrance finds itself in the way of your partnership motion. Congratulations, this is falling in love with a fly weight.
That weightmight dress well, have beautiful eyes that beckon your staring and their skin might appear to be made of golden sunrays but that doesn’t mean their arm doesn’t require a forklift or that their love isn’t the foundation for being grounded. No matter how much they support your grind (which is usually just above the surface) or how often they call themselves “your biggest fan”, they will begin to treat you in ways that don’t reflect what you expect (or what their mouth says). Soon enough, you will become disgruntled and sorrowful when you look around you and see your flight has been halted. Realizing letting go might gift you your travel back will undoubtedly be a painful recognition.
Let go anyway.
Flies vomit when they land btw. .. on whatever they’ve landed on.
The question becomes why is this person a ‘weight’ instead of a wing? Well, there is often one simple answer (although depending on the situation, there may be several more): Jealousy.
The wrong person will see your natural flyness (including but not limited to the way you look, the personality you own, how you carry yourself, how you handle life, how you chase down and achieve your goals and where you are in life) as a hindrance to their personal greatness and the relationship overall. I’m not sure why it is, but some people don’t notice when a person is trying to BUILD WITH them instead of against them. I’m sure it’s associated with whatever baggage they have in tow. But their blindness can keep you out the sky indefinitely while interlocking arms with them and snapping selfies for the gram. Your IG feed can easily become your relationship’s only means of protein.
Jealousy is dangerous, ugly and unloving and it camouflages itself as support, love, and light. But in reality: welcome to the darkroom. It will either kill you or stop your train. Muthafuckas will take from you when they are jealous of you and in a relationship with you. Money itself is too simple. If they know you as a hustler, they will see money as replaceable; they can’t take JUST that (although they will take that too). They take/want your soul. That’s where the satisfaction comes from. Your spirit. Your confidence. Your pride. They take one feather at a time from your wings until they’ve grounded you in a position where they can start trying to mold you into who they now believe you should be to or for them. Their greatness is defined by how weak you are for them. If they can put you in a position to compromise what YOU think, want, know, deserve and push back against, they feel empowered. If they, in their insecurities and fears, shortcomings and missteps, can put an ounce of mental control on us, to tame us, to mend us towards fixing their shit and not working on our own, to pull us down from their words, their ill-fated love, and poor decisions, then they have empowered themselves even more. The more power they collect, the bigger they grow and better control they have over something (usually these people have little control on anything else in their life).
We, the women of great internal power and audacious love, LOOK good on their arms. We look fly. It tells the world what they can pull and keep. It shows people something.
“Look who (s)he walked in with!!”
“How did (S)HE get HER?”
This is ego-lower self food, and it does more speaking on their behalf than they are willing to do for themselves. That’s why they accuse you of caring so much about what other people think. It’s not because you do and they know this. It’s projection baby!! When I tried getting back w/my ex in the late summer of 2017, I hosted a party shortly afterward with my friends. He got mad that he wasn’t invited and accused me of caring about how my guests would look at me if they knew he was back around. Let’s be 100 tho: I couldn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about who I choose to love and why. It was never that. It was all about what I thought about it and I wasn’t ready. But that grassroots attempt at a mindfuck almost worked. THEY care what other people think. Don’t fall for the projection! Their (wo)manhood has plenty of stock invested in the “fly look” of the two of you that is based on your flyness PRE-their ass.
Here we are: these daring, brilliant, talented women with exquisite beauty that we don’t even rely on. Women who know ourselves. Women who care for our loved ones. The villagers. Women who uphold honor, love, and respect and demand all of it. Women who build the table and pull out our own chairs. Women who aren’t content with chasing dreams; we massacre goals and create new ones to tackle.
To have US on their arm shows the world they are fly.
Then WE look fly in pictures.
No one can see our secret: that our arms are attached to weights.
And no wing can fly above an anchor. The only means is cancellation or cutting the ropes. It may be one of these most painful retractions of your life. You will ask questions that won’t generate responses that kiss it, kiss it better. Your trust may be broken as well as your heart and your mental state might be challenged for a period of days or weeks (and for some, months). You’ll indeed feel HEAVY as fuck !!!!!!!!!!!
As if you weigh 3 tons and can’t be bothered to pull your weight throughout an entire day (or you may instantly feel great, unbothered and ready for a do-over with a better candidate). But trust me when I say releasing the hand/arm that you are holding, snapping pictures with and looking good next to (also known as a WEIGHT) will open the sky up for you. The sidewalk will become a liftoff. You need not run. Just keep walking.
I assure you, as God and myself is my witness, you will be flying before you know it. While there might not be a hand to hold onto during your ascent, don’t trip. Fuck em and feed em’ concrete! FLY sis. Evict any negative energy from that person (pictures off cloud, phone, old gifts, left items, etc) and move UP with your life.
Fly until you fly into someone already up there, looking for you….we gotta learn that stopping to catch your breath doesn’t mean to pick up worm unless you’re eating it.
Don’t accept less,
Don’t be sorry,
and never settle for being grounded after you’ve left your mom’s house.
***Dedicated to my sisterfriend that inspired this conversation recently. I hope you know who you are <3
….Then there was that one time that I was standing in a trio of associates and friendships having general conversation and enjoying an ending moment when the sole male of us three noticed a woman drawing close on our triangle. As she eased in on us, he began introducing all three of us to each other; this was his girlfriend. To my surprise, she didn’t stick around and make a quadrant. Instead, she opted to recognize her man, speak to us and walk away with a smile and a book or two (we were in a library). As the two of us girls began childishly teasing our male associate about having a girlfriend and falling in love, someone mentioned marriage (as a joke). He quickly shot down our leap of love faith but confidently said: “but she’s wifey material though.” We all smiled and our proverbial ‘awwws’ before ending the night with goodbyes and hugs.
Nothing wrong with that right?
But something he said struck me one day while I was driving down the street letting my mind wander.
“She’s wifey material.”
You know what I’m about to ask right?
What is wifey material exactly? What does it mean to be or possess personality traits that make you wifey material? What type of material are wives made of?
Before I go any further, let me state matter-a-factly that this blog is in NO WAY about the male associate or his observation of the woman in his life. I don’t have a problem with the phrase; I’m just wanting to unpack it a little. So this is not a knock on him – he just was the conduit for this blog.
So about these wives and their specialty material . . .
Are they silk? Able to be pressed? Do they need to be washed on delicate? How about Cashmere? Is there such thing as a mink wife? Chinchilla wife? Linen perhaps? Linen definitely sounds like wifey material. The way I see it, rayon, cotton, polyester, and burlap don’t really sound like they would be firmly marching down the aisle of love. Those would be the non-wifey materials, saved for the throwaway girlfriends, the accidental teachers (who show the men how to love which usually goes to a different woman), the baby mommas and the hoes. . . ?
Hey, don’t shoot me here. I’m not labeling; I’m reaching …for understanding. What exactly is wifey material? And let’s not try to convince me it’s goofy stuff such as cooking and cleaning and sex on a regular basis. I’m talking about the subconscious stuff, the shit that can make or break a person – the REAL relationship glue. I remember something my ex said to me while we are arguing the day we broke up.
“No woman I would marry would ever have a past as filthy as yours”
Ouch, my nigga.
Damn my G. That hurt…
…annnnd it was also kinda funny because no man I would want to marry would have a present like his (at that time), and I risked my love on a hope anyway. But I digress. . .
Still, it made me wonder, especially in conjunction with the phrase wife-material, does your past affect the type of fabric you’re wrapped in? Does time, youth, ignorance nor time elapsed not make a difference? Do you OWE your other half a rundown of the life you had prior to him (as was reported to me by my now ex), and if so, does that imply that your past shouldn’t be something you wouldn’t be eager to share? Or does your past, much like bad credit, affect your ability to be seen as a qualified wife?
When a man finds a wife, he finds a good thing. Proverbs 18:22
One of America and especially black people’s favorite Bible verses to quote. I am not here to dispute this piece of scripture. In fact, I completely agree with it and at least have some understanding of it. Personally, I love the fact that finding a wife is gaining favor in the Lord. If every woman has the potential to be a wife, then every woman a man meets is cut from that same wifey-material…she just has to want to be a wife and intentionally align her actions, choices, and prayers up with it? I joined a group on Facebook at some point this year that was to go with this five-day challenge a friend suggested we sign up for. The challenge was about opening yourself up for Godly love but the FB group is called Young and Married. Yeah. I feel out of place but the people in it are mostly hopeful brides and grooms to be. I received an inbox asking if I wanted to sign up for a book that would help me prepare myself for a Godly marriage. Some of the emails I’ve received have been about molding you to be ready to be a wife (or husband). There was one video that Ciara posted a while ago that got her into all kinds of opinionated, social-media driven hot water. In it, a pastor is discussing being a wife before you have a ring. He repeats the scripture from above and addresses the fact that it doesn’t say “he who finds a girlfriend”, but rather “a wife”, suggesting you are a wife (or of wifey-material) without a husband, ring or marriage certificate. It is up to this elusive man to find you, realize who and what he has in front of him and then you get all the bells and whistles (proposals, weddings, marriage, etc). But in the meantime, you are (or should be) emotionally and mentally grooming yourself as who you want to be: a wife.
But what if I don’t want to be? What if I no longer care about getting married as much as I am concerned about living this life to the fullest? Even if that includes me dying single? Am I thot-material? Does the price of my fabric go down? Do I slip from the smooth edges of the silky shelves to the half-off clearance bin of leftover fabric parts? Can I never be of wifey-material because I am not reading books and ultimately preparing myself to be “the good thing-wife?” Am I NOT “a good thing.” What exactly does a man find when he’s not finding a wife? A bad thing? Forgive me if I’m thinking too hard but if a man finds a woman that’s not a wife (or of wifey material), what exactly did he find? If this was answered in biblical terms, would she be a Jezebel? Are those of us who aren’t that man’s wife simply pieces of used fabric that no one wants to sew with? What if we are no one’s wife????? #ThenWhat?
Actress Jennifer Lewis did a recent interview on The Breakfast Club where she was asked if she was married. She said she’s been engaged four times and still has the rings to prove it but she never went through with it.
“Honey, I’ve never been married. Listen, I married my career and I have no regrets.”
I’m not one of those people who believes there is someone for everyone. There are people who die every day without having ever been married, and many of these people have lived joyful lives and never once felt deprived of anything, especially not love. So for the women that fit that under this umbrella, what are they? Sluts? Whores? Devil-worshippers? Or just pieces of standard cotton that God tossed in the world to spice things up?
You know what made me want to be a wife? Power.
No, not the television show. As I came to understand wives based on readings, conversations, and random documentaries, while the husband may be head of household in many cases, it is almost always the wife that runs the house. She keeps the order. She balances the money. She inspires and raises the children and the husband! When I would see husbands gush over their wives, they would speak of her like an enigma. The ones that are truly in sync w/their marriage seem to almost shy away from understanding how they got so lucky. They know they fall short of her love and find themselves better and greater because of her. She leads the charges in their heart and is half the inspiration of their grind. All of this PLUS (depending on the beliefs) she gains them favor in the Lord. It’s a power-filled, selfless, spiritual act of love no matter what your beliefs are. By all means, finding a wife most definitely means finding a good thing and I’ve longed to BE a good a thing.
A good thing.
Not wifey material and I’ve hated that word since I first heard it @wifey. I never even longed to be a ‘wife’ until I started husbanding these stray, polyester sewn mutts looking for shelter and food. Playing house with my Barbie Doll raised imagination and my dry begging, cheap denim, Jegging-style boyfriends led me to want to be more than the role I was playing because they left me feeling like I wasn’t enough. And how could I be? Most of them needed their mommy or a parole officer, neither of which I was. And although I never really dug the live-in pussy situation, I somehow found hope that it would turn into a proposal a time or two. The only thing ever proposed from those mistakes were passions for fucking up my credit and my trust. Let Ciara’s pastor tell it, I guess I’ve been living as a girlfriend and not a wife, so every man who has found me, found a girlfriend, which doesn’t make me a ‘good thing’ as much as an easy conquest or short-term practice.
Interesting concept. . .
Becoming a wife wouldn’t have changed any of my relationships aside from putting me in the position to contact a cheap divorce lawyer. In all honesty, I do want to make life art with someone and attack the world’s canvasses as if we have the only paintbrush left in the world. I want to be a good thing to someone and in return, receive a good thing back. But I don’t want to work to convince a nigga that I’m dope enough for the position. I also don’t want to give wife benefits to boyfriend material. I suppose there is a certain way I should be living or a certain hem of fabric I’m supposed to be cut from in order to have that and I’m not sure either of those is my priority or origin.
And I’m ok with it. I’m ok with never being married. I was ok with it in the past. I am ok with it now. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to be joined with one person and we go forth and change the world and each other’s lives for the better. It simply means I’m not waking up daily trying to align my feet with the wedding two-step or praying nightly for a man to come find me waiting.
Either a man will SEE me, or his legally blind ass won’t.
Hell after almost marrying my future divorce, what I know now is that being wifey material doesn’t make a man husband ready. Because let’s be honest: all the good men aren’t taken but the single ones are picky AF and some of us will be left out. Period. It doesn’t mean he’s not fresh off a block of abandoned sandpaper and masculine tears. What good is a wife to a man going through his third round of pre-pubescent attitude changes? Is she supposed to “good thing” him into adulthood? What about the dudes out here slanging unprotected dick front, back, and side to side (also known as hoe’ing and we know we can’t wife them), dropping babies at every missed left turn to Albuquerque? Sounds like my favorite scripture that asks:
“What does it profit a man to gain the world but lose his soul?” Mark 8:36
I’ve met my own share of wifey-material raised women who gained the husband and lost her soul and essence because that nigga was cut from strips of fleece and rayon.
What I know for certain is I am not living for the hope and prayer that a lifelong companion will find me and gain his rightful favor. I am living for me; not for this riddle or trying to reconcile with the fabric of my creation. I am flying to the places I want to and experiencing all this world has to show me. I am intentional about healing myself, helping others heal and creating safe spaces for those that need them. I create as I see fit and insert my voice only in the necessary moments. I love openly and wildly and for the most part, without any apology. I am intentional. I am light. I am beautiful and I am love. To experience me, in all my qualities and pitfalls, my vulnerabilities and my confidence, is to experience a good thing.
Who says I have to be a wife in order to be a good thing? What comes first? The chicken or the egg? Or in this case, the ring or the good?
I know I am definitely a good thing. Anyone who doesn’t see me as a wife is missing out. But after many years and tons of mistakes, I found my damn self and discovered someone pretty amazing living inside of me.
So I guess I will gift this good favor from the Lord to me!
When I started the Sips from My Lemonade series, I had no idea how it would eventually end. I just knew it was a “living series” and eventually, it would be no more. Is this the end of it? I can’t really say. . . But if it is, this is the best possible way to end it !
I always wondered what this would look or feel like. How would it taste on the back of my tongue? What types of emotions would be associated with it and if every one of them would be good or if the release would actually trigger something internal that I didn’t want to confront? I’ve never really been able to put my finger on how I thought this would look. I guess some things you have to go through in order to get to what you feel.
I’ve always hoped I would arrive at this time of my life with a full band of theme music musicians following me, a lover on my arm and a hop in my step. Nothing about that daydream came true; there is no live band or lover. I wasn’t the girl who dreamed of her wedding day. I’ve talked about that before in the blog. I was the girl who dreamed of days like this although, I never could quite SEE it.
The last three years of my life have come and gone with a passion for speed and melancholy. I went from the height of planes to underneath the bottoms of shoes in what felt like a split second. Looking back on all of it with my good ole hindsight, it’s so easy to see what it all was. The best part: I always knew it in the back of my head but I love convincing myself that bullshit smells like Jadore so there’s that. I sometimes wonder if I will ever retire some of the feelings that are attached to me in regards to it but then I also wonder if I just have gotten lost on the pathway to forgiveness, therefore stalling the removal of those feelings. I go to therapy twice a month but still, I find myself at times wondering if love was ever present when I wasn’t giving it. And I don’t mean this just for my last relationship, I mean it for all of them. I’ve offered tons of ‘benefits of the doubts’, as well excuses and understanding in the areas I could provide it. I’ve caped and championed for those who have hurt me and have tried to confront every single detail about me that might affect how they treat/respond to me, whether in this blog or in my bedroom talking to myself. But the fact remains that I will never “understand” the minds of those who have trespassed against me and there is no need in attempting it. I give love as authentically as possible and I am always hopeful for its boomerang effect to hit me and knock me over. That hopeful girl with flowers in her two strands and sunshine in her heart has gotten this adult woman in a lot of unnecessary bullshit and it doesn’t smell good.
Things I have been over time:
Too damn thirsty for love.
You can’t be these things. You can only appreciate the love that does exist in your life, no matter what the type is (companionship, family, friendships, animals, etc). It’s ok to be intentional about why you allow yourself to love someone else or what you desire in your future and how you will arrive there, but behaving toward love the way I have in these years of my life will leave you with this face:
No one wants that face. I remember sitting up in my bed snapping these pictures because I wanted to remember how he made me look. #ThousandEntendre
This was on May 4, 2017; I began that year with sky-expectations but was relegated to the dirt floors of the basement instead. My ex and I had a bad arguement on New Year’s Day. I remember thinking if that’s how we were starting the year off, that wasn’t a good sign. Within four months, reality would prove me right. And there I was, laying in this bed with this purple shirt that I haven’t worn or seen since my eyes were swollen from an overnight stay at Mourning Inn. But as much grief and hurt as a few people have extended to me in exchange for love, they have always brought me something else. Something more priceless and positive. And this time was no different.
Actually, this time was different while yet being the same. In this space, with this presence of darkness hanging over me like a new halo, I found something that will be part of my legacy forever:
This time, internal hurt brought me to the next level and I didn’t even see it coming. In Robert Kennedy’s Indianapolis speech on the eve of MLK’s assassination, he quoted a poem by a man named Aeschylus. I may have never heard it but after learning this speech for a project this past March, it became part of my memory.
“Even in our sleep/Pain which we cannot forget/Falls drop by drop upon thy heart,
Until, in our own despair,
Against our will
Through the awful grace of God” (Aeschylus)
I feel this poem accurately described what took place at the end of April into May 2017 and throughout the rest of the year. It was totally against my will. I did not ‘permit’ or allow this to happen. I only obliged its presence. I wasn’t seeking it as I have in the past. It just showed up with a relentless hold on my waist, at times pressing down on my shoulders, alternating between massaging and lightly caressing. Though at times, breathing seemed like such a chore in the grand scheme of all of the negative thoughts I was having, I still had this ‘wisdom’ approaching me like a mile marker sign, and pouring out of my soul as if all the windows were down as I traveled at 90 MPH.
I realized it early.
So I paused at the first stop light and turned onto a private drive and kept going.
I admit. . . I checked my rearview. OFTEN. I would check it, turn around and go back and abandon the wisdom that was dripping from my fingers as if my fingernail polish had melted. I tried doing both at once and it was impossible so I made a choice: the rearview. I got out the vehicle and went walking back toward the beginning with a stickbag of my belongings.
When I arrived back in the arms of the one who loved me, Xscape wasn’t there singing and the love wasn’t enough to sustain the month-long changes I had undergone. I had to revert back to my car and find both me and that wisdom that had fallen on me despite my repeated attempts at rejecting it. I had to go back for what I abandoned in an effort to have love.
Everything was right where I had left it. The car was still running. The new knowledge sat on the passenger seat as if it had waited on my return. I got behind the wheel. I began driving and playing in wisdom’s hair. And nothing has been the same since. What a journey. What a fucking journey. This was a wander around the married-go-round. A slip down the slide you didn’t mean to climb. A toss into the abyss of hope that landed on the needlepoint of a mountain tall enough to reach the end of a sun ray. Adventures of nomadicy – that’s not a real word but I like it and am will be leaving it there.
So what am I talking about? What’s the big announcement I’ve been hinting at? What have all my ex’s from Texas (well, I just had to say it like that…no one’s from TX) brought me?
if you follow me on IG, you probably have it figured out already as I have not really been secretive about what’s happening as much as I have just not been outright sharing it. That’s for a multitude of reasons that I won’t go into but basically, I have some incredible news to share and I hope you, the reader, will be permanently excited with me.
This October, I am releasing my first book, a collection of poetry, prose and shorts, entitled NOMAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That’s right. Maybe you guessed that already? I mean, what else could it have been right? So, the thing about this book and the story I told just now is that I began writing this book a few days into my breakup last year. They started out as Facebook freewrites until, after reading back over a couple of them, it hit me: I have a book on my hands!! I knew it. I felt it in my soul. Poems were pouring out of me too rapidly to keep up with but every time I felt one coming, I was in front of the laptop. I began being intentional about what I was writing. I posted on FB that I had an upcoming book. I had made flyers alluding to something involving the word NOMAD. Then, I tried to get back w/my ex and in those months we were on/off again, I had abandoned the book, fearing it would cause more issues in an already testy environment. When we broke it off for the final time in December, I b-lined back to my project.
It was March when I bit the bullet and decided that the year had gone too well financially and artistically for me not to begin this process and make this ‘talk’ a reality that I could hold in my hand. So I linked up with a local publisher and got it started. And in the time that I have had to work on this book, I must say I am too proud and even more excited! Is it a book of poetry? Yes, it is. Is that all? NOPE!
I believe this book to be a first-hand look at the onset of a breakup and the year that follows. 90% of the poems were written between 4/27.17 – 4.27.18, which wasn’t planned but ended up being perfect. The name comes from the fact that I have FB posts that date back to 2011 where I called on myself to become a NOMAD. Then, there’s the other part. If you can figure that out, congratulations.
You is kind.
You is smart.
You is important.
Is this book about my last relationship? Yes and no. I’m like the black taylor swift (you will notice I don’t capitalize ypeepoo names I don’t like); when someone breaks my heart, I make art out of them. It’s good for coping!
this book isn’t ‘about’ me and my ex. It’s about me. It’s about love. It’s about life. It’s about every ex I’ve ever had. The funny thing about the poems that were coming out after the breakup is how they fit so perfectly with all the men of my past; not just the most recent. But I give credit where it is due and I may not have gotten the ring I expected from my ex, but I got something better: a book. A novel in sense. A playbook. A guide. Something I hope will speak for, save, change, help/assist, inspire another [black] woman. I really do. I always wondered what it would be like when I prepared to release my first book. While I did release a chapbook, this is actually a book. A real book with so much intentional love packed inside that my chapbook, as proud as I am of it as well, fails to compare to what this is and will be. These poems aren’t meant to highlight me as a great writer but when I looked at what I was writing in the beginning, I just knew it deserved more than to be stored away in a laptop folder.
I have great expectations and high hopes for this project.
It’s a literal nomadic wander through one year of healing and lessons learned in the process (which will be taken from my blogs). I can’t tell you all about it just yet because it’s simply not the time right now but – trust me when I say you will want to stay on notice for this book. It’s the greatest things I will have ever produced.
And, it has a ONE WOMAN SHOW that is accompanying it entitled “The Stand”. You have no idea how phenomenal this show is going to be. The book is finished. It’s not a process of choosing and writing anymore – we are heading into someone reading my draft and then into the process of production!!!! So it’s not a game. It’s not a joke. It’s more real than even I can believe!
I am currently seeking a choreographer (dance).
If you know any, please send them my way. I also need two dancers. I will compensate for what I am looking for – not seeking handouts. Just a bit of assistance on some things. October seems so far away right now, but time moves so fast these days and what I need them for, we need to get started on asap.
Finally, there is a book soundtrack to go with it! It’s on Spotify under my name and it’s called NOMAD! It’s all songs that I have listened to during this process and it’s a mixture of people and music styles. It’s anything but predictable. Like the book. Like me. I guess I DO have a band !!!!
My old friend used to tell me that my life would make a great book. While I agreed with her, I could never see how it would happen. I knew how to write but how would I get people interested in MY life? Well, if there’s one thing that life has taught me, it’s that if you kick back and let things happen naturally, you will be amazed how stuff folds together for the greater good of the intentions you’ve set.”
God is incredible.
I can’t wait to share this moment with all of you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Of course, I’m nervous (AF) and wondering can my stuff hold up to the works of those that I love and admire so much, but hey, it’s not even about that. What’s for me cannot be challenged. I am not an average writer. I’m a dope ass writer. I believe in that. I believe that about myself. And with this book that is coming soon, I offer myself an opportunity to show people what happens when literary poetry marries spoken word and together they birth a blog baby.
Welcome to nomaD. Where the theme music is in my head, love lives on my sleeve and I don’t have a hop in my step because there’s too much wind under my wings for me to be on the ground walking!
It’s one helluva a journey, I’ll tell you that much now <3
****Oh yeah, I took a picture of me on today so that picture up top won’t be the last photographic look I have #OnThisDay.
I faked it. I faked it with every single one of you. If we had sex, you got lied to. I’m no better than my ex. Maybe this is my moment of clarity as JayZ would call it. To the guy that thought I had 17 orgasms – I didn’t boo. I’d be dead before number 10. That shit goes to your heart if it’s real. To my ex, who I told had the best and at the time boo, you did, but I lied to your ass too. I know, it’s not right, but it’s ok, as Whitney would say. I didn’t have all those orgasms. You didn’t make me cum like that, that one time. That wasn’t my body convulsing as you said you felt; it was simply extra kegal pressure and a little body shaking for extra effects. My bad. There were a few times though. But the truth is, I don’t like orgasming during sex because it means I want to stop and the odds are, he’s still not finished. Just like when a man has an orgasm and his penis goes soft and it’s game over time, I am similar in the desire to end the body contact and relax. So it’s always been easier to pretend and just enjoy sex. BUT – this means I have to be a liar. A phony. A faker.
A fucking Nomad spelled backward. Fuck.
I should do better….in the future. I should be intent on being honest in every facet in life and my relationships, which means if the sex is trash, I should tell them with no hesitation. Ok. I’m down for that. I’m down for not pretending. It’s a bit tiring anyway, especially on those days that I don’t feel like it and still have to because otherwise, he’s looking at me like ‘why ain’t you cum yet?’ I’m thinking in my head “my nigga, I never do.”
I’ve been lying to them since I lost my virginity. Shout out to the few and far in between moments where I actually did have an orgasm. Only one person has ever been able to make it happen without me putting in intentional concentration and body movements. He’s married now with a family so I won’t call his name nor does he cross my mind anymore. But he had it figured out somehow. The rest of you guys –I’m not sorry. You deserved my lie. Well, some of you at least. A few of you deserved to be told the truth to your fucking face: you suck at this.
I needed this moment of lemonade. I would call this lemon a bit sweet because my intentions were always good. I only wanted to stroke their ego well and not make them feel inferior. The reality is, it might have been a lot of fun to explore giving me an authentic orgasm. I tried that w/my ex. I told him that I usually don’t have one (my attempts at whole honesty) but I guess I’ve institutionalized myself so much that I fell right back in line with being a liar. Oh, his eyes were so beautiful and when I looked into them, I couldn’t tell him that he didn’t make me cum. It’s really me, not them! Hmm…maybe MY ego can’t stand to be bruised in that acknowledgment? Well, I now am looking at myself as the tall storyteller that I have inadvertently turned into sexually and pause. I need not indulge in anything until I can spit the truth. Maybe that’s why I attracted a liar. Afterall, he was a disservice to my emotions, but my lies, even orgasmic lies, are a disservice to my physical.
I’m not the only person.
TONS of women lie. Yes, you too may have been lied to. The odds are stacked against you that you haven’t had a woman moan-a-lie to you while giving you eye contact and calling you daddy. Yeah. World-class performances. The same way yaw talk about hoes, conquests and whatever other behaviors you enjoy sharing w/each other, us women talk about the lies we have told in the name of his orgasm. Seeing as though this lie-culture is in such abundance, perhaps some of you guys should stop putting so much stock in your dick? Maybe that shouldn’t be all you have to offer. You might want to turn to the mirror, give yourself a long stare, speak some affirmations and understand that you are more than dick. I’ve listed a morning affirmation for you here:
I AM more than my penis.
Yep. Say that every morning with your coffee until you change your mind. At least for those that put so much weight on the fact that they have a dick that needs fucking. Oop. Yeah, I said that.
BUT – the facts remain: I lied.
Just about every time.
I’m a liar.
A filthy dirty ass liar.
And you didn’t make me cum. . .
Not even once my nigga.
So be more and offer more than your dick. You’re better than my lies.
“Yeah, yeah this is my palace, champagne in my chalice
I got it all covered like a wedding band
Wonderland, so my alias is Alice
We gon’ start a motherfuckin’ pussy riot
Or we gon’ have to put ’em on a pussy diet
Look at that, I guarantee I got ’em quiet
Look at that, I guarantee they all inspired”
It has been nearly ten years. Not exactly that long but closer to it than one. My number has been the same for over ten years so when he shot his shot in the dark to catch up with an old friend, he was in luck. I always thought we had really inhibited, dope conversations despite the fact that our previous attempt at ‘dating’ (when I was in my late 20s) proved that we weren’t after the same things in life or other people. So it wasn’t that big of a deal to hang out with him later that week because I knew him, I could use the conversation and quite frankly since my ex left, it’s been pretty quiet. Yes, I’ve been doing all the proverbial after-breakup things such as ‘loving myself’, ‘dating myself’, ‘me-time’, ‘working-on-myself’, etc, etc….
I’ve spent so much time fucking (with) myself that I’m JY’d out and ready for something different to spice up all this self-love. We had a good time and talked up a storm. He told me about the success of his ongoing business and I was honestly proud of him. A black man who has made it from where he started to where he stands today is not only a success story but worthy of a toast to the good life. I was here for it. It was a good catch up for someone who I hadn’t seen since I pre-2010.
Time passes and a message comes through one day. Now let me preface with the fact that we had been texting A LITTLE BIT in-between time. I’m not interested in being anyone’s anything, so I’m not giving out anything – sex, too much me, effort, etc. But, when he would text ‘how’s your day’, I would be courteous enough to say it was good. There were a handful of other messages like such, and one textersation where we briefly touched on the fact that I was celibate. Now, why, since when and for how long I am living this life is no one’s business – the fact is, as of the second I said it to him, it was a thing. . . at least where WE were concerned. This was understood and up until the day his message came in asking if he could “ask me something without me getting mad’, I thought we were on easy associate-grounds. As soon as I read his request, I knew what it was. We weren’t strangers to sex although the last time we saw a bed together was about 2006/2007. Honestly, it may have even been 2005, but who’s counting? This means nothing out here in the real world. Because I had been drinking wine and indulged in a bit of THC, I was in the mood to be humored. As the detective on Night of the Creeps said, “thrill me.” I gave him the go ahead and this is what I got:
“I want to drink and then smoke then eat you out from the back. No sex though”
I knew it. I knew whatever it was, it involved sex. I promptly informed him that not only was cunnilingus a form of sexual activity, but that was not interested in his or any others as I don’t enjoy it very much. He then proceeded to ask me what I liked. My response?
Our conversation ended there. He hasn’t attempted any more sexual plays but I know it’s only because he’s trying to formulate a better plan and I can honestly say if it doesn’t involve leaving this country in order to eat it, he can die in a pool of his own pussy starvation because sex is the last thing on my mind.
Which brings me to the purpose of this blog: why men so quick to want to eat the juice box? There is an unbelievable amount of men out there that are looking at women and basing her AIDS/STD test results on her shoe game and eye color. It’s as if all of the women are running around like hot-in-the-ass teenagers, fresh out of the locker room from experiencing their first time. Are we supposed to be impressed? By head? By the desire to give us head? Ok, let me speak for myself here because some women willingly let a brother down there for a feast. I have in the past. I’m certainly not knocking it and with the right bed buddy or relationship (because I don’t know which is better for the soul at this point), it can be a glorious affair, but all this ‘hey, what’s your name, can I eat the pussy’ is dangerous, disgusting and not appetizing to most women…certainly not myself.
Even the whole ‘I just want to eat it’ line is so “1991-And-Look-Whose-Burning” (Ice Cube).
NO, YOU DON’T NIGGA!
You want to prime the pussy up, get it wet and sloppy and then suggest that you insert your dick, which is undoubtedly hard at this point, inside just a lil bit. Might as well say ‘just the tip.’
This code language for “I want you to make me cum” is played. While I do know there are some guys that really will just eat and keep it moving, the man at the top of this blog is one of them, they are few and far in between. Standard protocol dictates that if a man has slobbered all over your snatch with his bare lips, odds are he is going to be ready to fuck and will probably need convincing that condoms don’t ruin the experience. The whole damn thing is so unnecessarily exhausting and if we aren’t having this debate thousands of miles outside of our home city, then at least for me, it’s a waste of time.
Who are the people who are content with laying up in Indianapolis fucking and getting/giving head all day? It’s not me. I know that for a 100% fact. I always prove myself right or wrong in regards to my perspective on things.
Niggas are running around texting offers of head jobs and sloppy lip-on-lip action but its 2018 and that’s not where most will stop. They also are likely to bring those groceries in the house for you. I’ve learned from personal experience that getting your ass licked doesn’t mean you’re a special person; it’s just part of the package these days.
Since I’ve been single, which technically has been exactly one year but if you go by the law of us ‘dusting ourselves off and trying again and another again’, then we would consider it almost five months. Big difference right? Well, for the last five months, it’s been an asinine amount of offers on my table to kick my legs open and let a random tongue have a moment. I just don’t understand it because it seems so reckless. Being reckless makes me feel so stupid that I correct my actions as fast as humanly possible so as not to feel that ignorant again. And it goes without mention that if this were women dropping “let me come suck your dick” messages in men’s phones, they’d mansplain her hoe-ness with one statement: “she doesn’t love herself.” And let’s not forget she definitely wouldn’t be wife material.. ..which is another upcoming blog for another day.
So do these niggas lack self-love? Is head really supposed to be that impressive OR are THEY still impressed by head? Again, don’t get it wrong. Head isn’t a bad thing. But it’s certainly not impressive by any standards outside of the bedroom. Getting my pussy ate ain’t going to feed my stomach or my dogs, it’s not going to make sure my grass is cut, trash is out and bills are paid. Getting head isn’t going to get the contracts I’m waiting on signed any quicker. It’s not going to speed up the book release process (more on that later). Getting head is going to do nothing but, if I allow it, prep my vagina for penis entry. Dassit.
Maybe I’m scorned. Maybe too many damn bruises sit across my chest, marked out in fives, taking as many rows to exist. It’s possible that my experiences with men using head to ‘get me in the mood’ for something I said I didn’t want has something to do with it. Whatever the case, I’ve talked with other women of different ages about it and I’m not convinced that this is something that I’m alone on. It’s as if men have realized that asking a woman to give him the pussy up front might be too messy so they try a roundabout way of getting what they want. If they can offer the women first rites to the pleasure center, then she’ll be geared up, ready for some dick and too hot off of her orgasm (you know, the one they promise to deliver ) to turn down a good stroke.
“I wanna eat it from the back”
“I just want to eat it”
“Can I please just taste it”
“I bet you taste good”
“Can I see what you taste like? I don’t want nothing else”
“No penetration baby, I just want to lick that pussy”
Ahhhh, the language is so extensive. The one-liners pack less punch than an empty keg at a college frat party. All so predictable and with little true purpose. What happens after you’ve eaten the juice box? Then what????? Anything spectacular? And I don’t mean by the way of how you move and groove that dick; I’m talking everything else about life. Is there a promotion we can get from it? Some type of leveling up? Furthermore, if niggas are so nonchalantly offering up their tongue and lips to me, I tend to look at it like they are doing the same w/other women. So you got this mass text of head offering going out in the church of pussy and you think I’m supposed to jump on it? Because head is so hard to get? Or is it because they think all we do is sit around and wish for some? What’s on your tongue (or who) before you get to me and why should I be ok with it? Why isn’t giving head as precious as they want their (future) wives number count to be? I’m not impressed by it and I’ll be honest and say I’ve taken a nigga up on it before out sheer boredom and guess what: I wanted my pussy back and it was tewlayte.
What about the ones that SUCK at licking pussy? Let’s be honest: there are some trashcan tongues out here pretending to know what they are doing but arrive at the labia and clitoris just as lost as a milk carton photo. They be down there going to town with no ride and no bus fare; biting, tongue-jabbing and fucking (please don’t fuck me with your tongue. It’s stewpid), making a bunch of noise while doing little, looking at you (so you can fake in their face) and all the other false narratives they have convinced themselves are proper ways of cunnilingus. I either have to fake it or I have to hurt your ego – either way, I end up finishing the job myself.
Shit’s exhausting and I leave the spirit of exhausting with every upward motion of my wings and trust me, I’m doing a lot of flying these days. I simply don’t have time in what’s left of my life to spend it wasting away getting head just cause it’s there. Just because he’s a man, I’m a woman. I want to see as much of this ENTIRE WORLD as I can before I expire. I want to publish tons of books, I want on the NY Best Sellers list, I want my poetry to be heard, I want the LiT Ball to change the course of women’s lives forever and I want everything new that I’m creating to be just as successful or better than everything from the past. Nowhere in there does time exist for mindless fucking and head. I’m no prude. Horniness ain’t for the faint at heart and celibacy is no fun, but it’s better than sitting around after the fact wanting the impossible: to retrieve the given pussy and strike it from life’s records.
Sex is beautiful with the right person. Who that right person is or how long he/she is around for is your personal preference, but the point is interrupting my (your/our) daily flow to make someone else happy with a body tour and a buffet ticket isn’t happening anymore. It’s not like I’m sending smoke signals or using social media to reel in a random fisherman looking for a catch. I’m putting nothing out there to suggest a need that requires fulfilling. But it’s everywhere. I have one guy on my IG and all he does is post stuff about giving head. Like, seriously?
I don’t want head based on the fact that you have a tongue and I a vagina. Is that all it takes? To quote Tupac, “I don’t want it if it’s that easy”.
I want joy. Pure joy. Stuff memories are made of. Not interested in a situation. Even if I wanted a fuck buddy, I would be the one doing the picking and I guarantee these fuckboys would remain in the cotton field. The only head I’m interested in right now is Head of Household. I mean even Cardi B let him “get what he wants”, but in return, he bought her Yves St. Laurent. Meanwhile, in Indianapolis, niggas wanna drive in circles up 38th Street, sit idle and lick pussy.
Someone picking up their phone to think that after a decade of not talking and two glasses of Pinot to catch up, that I would be interested in hopping on their face with no second thought is a misguided nigga. So is the guy that has a secret ‘crush’ (yeah right) and thinks this is the way to me. Let’s not forget the guy that has been in the cut daydreaming about tongue acrobatics- yeah, don’t want his tongue either. Mr. I-Had-It-Before-I-Can-Have-It-Again doesn’t stand a chance. Sir Let-Me-Shoot-This-Text, his brother Monsieur My-Dick-Is-Bored and their cousin Lick-Em-And-Leave-Em-Cause-FuckCommittments, Esquire, have all been asked to get up from the table and don’t look back. Hoe ass behavior. These niggas that loosely toss their tongues and dicks don’t have self-respect and can’t be turned into no husband. WTF can I do with them besides be wet and ringless?
I’m sure for some women, this is all they want and need and it’s perfectly fine for them to jump at the opportunity. But I’m good. The shit that impressed me in the past either has been outgrown or never should have impressed me in the first place. TextoGrams of head offerings are underwhelming and overpopulated in a world where disease is rampant and hoe’s still can’t be housewives. GTFOH.
I’m good my niggas. I’m not reduced to my flesh or someone’s desire of piece of it. All this talent and love and niggas still want to try to serve me in shots of saliva with a side of 3 AM texts. I’ve been invited (or suggested) to threesomes, I’ve had sexual innuendo about my niece shared with me (that about floored me), I’ve even been asked to hold drugs and a gun and while that has nothing to do with this blog, I’m just sharing the audacity levels that exist. NAW. Not with all this smart shit in my head and this dope shit being sewn from my needles. Nah. Not only am I good my niggas. I’m too good…for this shit. Damn right Janelle, these niggas are officially on “a muthafucking pussy diet.”
Most of us aren’t this way because we want to be. We have no ill intent but, as spoken in those lyrics, it’s in our nature somehow. Our lack of control embarrasses us. The aftermath is shameful. We don’t boast about it in attempts to emasculate you. We would much rather have you hold us and help us through our journey to stop but you won’t be able to, after, it’s not your job. Anger is the most important emotion to control due to how violent it can make someone. Our control needs help. We can feel the rage as it starts to grow, but most times the argument in question has already gone too far. We don’t hit for sport or to exercise control; we hit for defense. I know it doesn’t make that much sense. But that tone of disgust that appears in your voice, and the sounds you make when you’re tired of us in the moment seem to push our meters up. The louder you yell and the more your language leaves a common disagreement and begins treading the thin line of emotional abuse, the less we can hold it down.
Don’t date women like me. For us, words have the same hit and force as fists and so we respond accordingly. At our boiling point lies the ‘violent bitch.’ We won’t be able to stop ourselves from risking it all as fits fly, rage thrashes and our eyes close to the incoming response.
Stay away from for we are dangerous.
We need help. We are pre-packaged so neatly and imperfectly flawless that it’s hard to remember sometimes that underneath the underwire in our bra lies a violent heart.
Two words that made up the title of a poem I heard back in 2003. Eventually, I wrote a response to it even though I wasn’t directly connecting myself to its subject matter. There have been several relationships where it never crossed my mind to throw a punch. For a while, I guess I thought I was ….ok.
We have ups and downs.
There are times, years even, where it seems like we’re different. We feel confident that we are healed although we never directly focused on such. It’s not until your kind comes along to dance a jig on our tightrope that we remember there is still something inside of us that needs fixing. We shake from the inside out. Use softer voices as a way of backtracking where the argument is heading because we know the feeling. We try without saying we are trying to keep from allowing the beast inside of us to be awakened.
Stay away from girls like me . . .
Because we fail at it often.
Your words will feel like mini knives, really sharp and piercing. Each one cuts a half-inch beneath the last and we can’t handle this. We weren’t taught how to properly deal with hurtful voices. Cruel and intentional word slinging can bring such mental devastation. Many people can handle that shit. They know how to pray their way through every disagreement or at least intercept it before it gets out of hand. We want to be this way and hopefully, one day we will. But for now, we know us and we beg you to watch your words. . . .
…But you don’t. You can’t because you are hurting too, from stuff we have nothing to do with. We both have been raised by with disappointment in our fathers. Your buttons get pushed too. It’s a masculine viewpoint of a mirrored reflection and we won’t be good for each other because of this. At best, we’ll be a hard erection to a sweet spot and the more we age, the more we know that life is way bigger than sex.
So stay away from us .
Girls like me are hurt inside our core where magma is pumping lava blood through our system. We have anger that knows how to get our attention. We’re not ready for what we wish we had and we won’t make good decisions while angry. To choose your kind would be to choose that same anger repeatedly. You may think it’s a knock against you but it’s not.
You’re not a bad person. You’re just a bad choice, for us.
Your beautiful is as bright as ours and I’m sure the shine will greatly impact a different life, but girls like me are too damaged to coddle your ego, tend to the needs you will have or pacify you with accommodating silence. Girls like me are loud.
Boisterous. There are times when we can be accommodating to our anger. Our hearts turn into leisure lounges for our temper to kick its feet upon. Anger feels welcomed with us; we open ourselves up and accept it…then we act on it. We don’t like being taken advantage of for the moment or the long-run or talked down to. We are not beneath you; we just have a different type of healing to do.
Girls like me can’t control it sometimes.
But we don’t give up. We are water bearers. Former mermaids that were drug out of the sea. Mercedes on feet, driving at full speed, poetry within a paragraph, perhaps we’re prose, girls like me don’t look like we would hoard the pain we do in our Micheal Kors bags but there’s much to be said about what we’ve internalized. It’s precisely why we don’t own compact mirrors. No one wants to see that when they are just trying to check for lipstick on their teeth. We feel secretly embarrassed when people speak of domestic violence. Because no matter how much of a discount we got on our Aldo heels, we know we still fit under that umbrella.
Stay away from girls like me….
Abusive girls. Abusive women.
Many would see us as lesser if they knew our secret, so we hide under cute dresses, crochet hairstyles, and Fenty foundation. We’re still ladies though. We want to do and be better but that begins with the choices we make on who we want to be and who we are willing to deal with.
Stay away from girls like me because we won’t deal appropriately with you. And you will call us crazy. You’ll tell a few friends that we are volatile. You’ll tell us we scare you and it will confuse us. We’ll respond with a chuckle at the idea that we instill fear in a grown man. But, I suppose it’s a fair statement. You will begin to do more than restrain us. You too will become violent and it will start with self-defense. It will grow into our standard relationship practices.
Girls like me… won’t give you what you need. We’ll be the opposite. Dangerously in love will understate how we act. So stay away from us. We are still mad at our fathers. A few of us still have yet to figure that out. They (our fathers) should have shown up. They should have taught us better and treated our mothers with more respect. We’re pissed that we (us andour mothers) were treated like everyday weeds instead of marvelous one of a kind flowers. There are pieces of our puzzle that require attention and repair and for us to stop looking out of our childhood-colored glasses.
There is no choice but to see those who failed to teach us proper love as human beings that just so happened to be in control of someone else’s upbringing. We can’t hold them higher than human nature. We’re special but not that special. Some of us are in charge of someone else. It’s a learning process to figure out no parent is above being a human being and one day, if we don’t fix our broken pieces, our children will feel the same way we do. We will inevitably show them a poor path of loving if we don’t allow growth to take place within ourselves.
Just stay away from us.
Not for now but for good. You are no good for us. Or to us.
We have to heal. We have to figure it out. We have to become greater than we are right now.
We have to choose better – for our internal and external selves.
And when this process has completed itself and we are open to freely fly in the name of love, we have one final request one of you:
Stay away from us.
Stay away from girls like me.
We are fragile.
And no matter how much gold lines the cracks in our Kintsugi, you will break us open and re-expose our blackouts.
We don’t want that.
Neither do you.
“All this love you speak of,
All I want is to love and be loved”
Nicki Minaj, the Crying Game
So stay away from girls like me.
Girls who are abusive started as girls who were abused – could be literally, figuratively or both. And if you ever wondered, abandoning your child is a form of emotional abuse (and torture). We want a love that won’t make us look back and that won’t pull violent tendencies out of our luggage when our intention is to unpack.
You’re not so special that you should be able to bring us the bags we’ve sat down for the last time.
This is the year of breaking cycles: Cycles of how we act and,
~Private Conversation about an Ex and why we broke up
My dearest Gasoline,
There is much to say. Too much. I am still making peace with the fact that much of what I need to say will never be said. It’s like an unsolved murder. I’m the homicide victim and my spirit is trolling your mind for what the fuck I did for you to kill me. But there will never be an answer that is good enough or even justifiable and beyond that, most of these are words never spoken or spoken poorly in the moment and never ‘resolved.’ I was driving down the street listening to Sia. Fire Meet Gasoline to be exact from her 1000 Forms of Fear album. Here are the lyrics that struck a chord:
“It’s a bad bet/Certain death/But I want what I want and I gotta get it
It’s a bad bet/Certain death/When the fire dies/Darkened skies
Hot ash, dead match/Only smoke is left”
I remember one of the first videos I put together of us, my most recent lost cause. It had this song as a background. Back when I was fucking around with another guy, a few years ago, I had just started listening to Fantasia’s Lose to Win album.
“You make me wanna love you
Even though this love might be the end of me
I can’t help but love you
This, love is no good for me
Could be the end for me” (End of Me)
Music has always been my thing. I get my life to music and I’m not one of those persons who is unconscious of lyrics. As much as I love every instrument and the sounds they make when combined, the lyrics are just as important to me and are often what pulls me into songs that may have otherwise not have enjoyed. It was never lost on me that the Fantasia song was quite a telling forecast for what I was projecting myself into. That non-relationship ended up as the catalyst for this blog to come to fruition. But I don’t think I was paying as close attention with Sia. Those lyrics, along with the Fantasia lyrics and several many other songs, told a story that was too come that I probably could have protected and saved myself from. Instead, I turned them into love and climbed aboard ships that would ultimately leave me sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I’ve been left time and time again to save myself from the sharks, which I assume is basically what everyone has to do. But it just kills me more to see men stroll into my life, fuck it up and leave me in shambles while crooked smile walking their ass back to wherever they came from.
I made a mistake today. I reached out to you. I attempted to ask an unnecessary question, perhaps having an equally unnecessary mental playback, and was met with what felt like disgust. I can’t blame you. For that, I hold no grudge and no anger. It actually jolted me back on the road I was on. We all know I have a thing for looking back. Today, I looked back for you with questions in my palms and my fingertips tiptoed across the keys to send a white flag of curiosity your way. You didn’t want it. Neither did I. WE are dangerously toxic fumes for each other. Even inhaling a text message from the other could lead to an all new death. I won’t pretend you may not have hurt a bit from losing me but it would take God himself to sit me down on a one on one and convince me that you ever loved me or could possibly miss me. But that’s not the point of this blog. I am writing this to you, all of you maybe, to deaden and end this circle for the last time. I’m flying the fuck outta this kill space. I have swum to the shore on my own; you weren’t there to offer help. I think you drowned me on purpose.
I THINK YOU DROWNED ME ON PURPOSE.
I think you wanted to hurt me. You wanted to kill me. You left me walking. In the dark. In Detroit. In the dark. In the pouring rain. In a dress. On the Westside of Indianapolis. In the hood. You LEFT me. It may take years before I forgive that action. It may take years before I forgive the white woman. I have a long way to go before I forgive the white bitch. No lies detected here. One thing you have all taught me or at least led me to believe is that ALL men have a woman on the side for something. My trust has been misused, harmed and mistreated. It’s my job to get it back. It’s my job to trust me again and believe in love, specifically love for ME, again. I am not a perfect woman. Let’s discuss some of my flaws real quick:
I’m messy. I toss my clothes wherever. I don’t do dishes every single day. I have so much secret single behavior (according to Carrie Bradshaw), that when I finally find myself in a relationship, it’s hard to rid myself of it completely, especially when living with someone. Which brings me to another flaw: I trust and have trusted yaw niggas way too much. I’ve allowed you to borrow my name and get apartments. When you were down and out, instead of turning my back and saying you weren’t the type of man I wanted, I pushed forward, supported you and gave you a place to live. A PLACE TO LIVE. I cannot for the life of me understand how that could be taken so easily but apparently, it’s a nonchalant gesture of ‘like.’ I vowed to never live with another man unless we were married or six months from being married, but I gave you a place to stay with no hesitation. In return, I was emotionally abused for what you found in MY home – pictures, and letters from my past that I was forced to part with because you felt so disrespected. Meanwhile, you had a bitch on the side. A whole white woman off to the side. What they say is true: a guilty conscious will treat the other person as the guilty party. I never so much as let another man smell the breath of my hello but you were dreaming about a woman while laying in MY bed sleep. I tried hard, to be what you needed. I prayed and cried for you, alongside you. I supported you – I brought my life into yours and shared it openly and willingly. I told you about the people who hurt me before and the past baggage that I had in tow with me. I told you what I wanted and what I was looking for. You took that and used it to your benefit; not to help grow me. An ex recently asked me where he ranked with me not too long ago. He sent me a letter that spoke of I’m sorry’s and how young we were back in the day, attributing that to our demise while also remembering times that he thought were good. I wonder if that good outweighed the bad for him because it didn’t for me.
I was left and abandoned with no job and no car and no cell phone, stuck out east with NO ONE – not even the person who called herself my best friend – coming to see if I was alive or not. I wanted to die. I’ve said that before. I’ve never been more suicidal than the day I sat at 6250 Brendon Way Drive with all these pills scattered on the table. I sat there with a journal, writing poems and thoughts, praying and crying while chain-smoking black and milds that I walked what felt like 16 miles to get. You know what kept me here? My mom and God. That’s it. I wanted to die tho and I’m not sure if you knew or if that pales in comparison to the good times you seem to remember. Where do you rank you ask? Idk. I don’t rank niggas at this age. I’m too busy trying to unpack the old bags so I have a free hand to carry the new bags I collect.
I went to California for my birthday. I thought of you because we went there together. On my dime and your promises of paying me back. I went to some of the same exact places we went. I stood where we stood. This was at no point on purpose but I was eager to recreate memories and pitch you out of my head. You’re everywhere. You in the house I live in. You are in my pictures, all over my cloud and in my videos. My mom still asks and talks about you. I get sick when I hear your name. I could VOMIT at the idea of my desperation. Yeah, let’s get back to desperate me and my flaws – I’ve been too desperate for love, even when I didn’t think I was. I prayed all over, up and down our relationship so I trusted my decisions with you much more because I felt like I was being led in your direction. I now know it wasn’t for marriage and life together. It was to truly shine a light on me and expose me to myself, yet again but maybe for the last time. I used to introduce you as my partner. You didn’t understand it at first. I get why that is now. We were never partners. I was being used. Just like I was with the non-relationship before you. Just like I was with everyone before that. Everyone uses me for their own pleasure – most times it’s for sex, sometimes for money and other times it’s for simple support, emotionally and otherwise.
You, my nigga, were the culmination of EVERYONE wrapped up in one person who wasn’t tall enough for me to wear my heels around. I didn’t care; I stopped wearing tall shoes. It was that simple. I changed, little by little, for you and you never noticed. I threw away what you told me to throw away, despite you physically hanging onto the white woman of your dreams, that you once told me was crazy. Today, I just wanted to know why she was better than me. But she wasn’t and I guess that was a question that didn’t even deserve to be spoken because how dare I ever believe that was ever the case. It had nothing to do with ME. That was your shit. Not mine. I’ve internalized it all. I am good at pretending to myself that the relationship I am occupying space in is healthy and good. The reality is often that I’m dying a slow, loving death.
I sit in scattered pieces wondering why yaw enjoy breaking me so much. What is it about me that niggas want to grab me and throw me as hard as they can against a concrete wall???? The hurt that exists inside of me is an inferno that continues to be added to instead of putting out. I was in a good head space when I met you. Looking back, you lied to me then too. I came to you but you pretended like you had been wanting to come to me and didn’t know how. You were such a liar.
I was abusive. More flaws about me. I hit you. I hit my ex. I hit the ex before that. I’m abusive. It’s part of the reason I don’t really ever want to be in another relationship. I can’t take people saying things and talking to me in a certain way. It causes me to see red and next thing I know, I’m all over the place with raging fists. That’s not right. It’s not right to hit a man. I acknowledge that. I need anger management. But I also need the kind of man that doesn’t call me bitches, hoes, sluts, tramps, and a host of other colorful names. A couple of you guys were good for that name calling shit. Emotionally and mentally abusing me is the quickest way to get these paws. #noLie It might not be right and again, I admit that. But I assure you I don’t walk in the door throwing punches. The day I was called everything but Kendria or Januarie still surprises me that I didn’t just shy of remove the skin off of your face, to be honest. I was called a hoe, a slut, told that I was a better woman back in the day than I was now. I was told that I was laying next to you thinking of “sucking other niggas dicks.” That lets me know that I was exhausted from that relationship because I didn’t do anything but take those gut shots and try not to let it hurt as bad as it did. A slut? A hoe? Sucking other niggas dicks? You were all over all my social media. I told everyone that I could about you. I thought of you in Light and Height, not low and dirty. How dare you say these things to me? The woman that tried to get pregnant but unfortunately was already broken from past relationship mistakes to do so, thank the Lord. The woman that wanted to marry you? The woman that flew you across the country and back? The woman that gave you a place to stay when you needed it? She’s a slut? A whore? The woman you spent the whole relationship lying and misleading? Remember when you told me I hit you and made your watch fly off and get lost. I believed that. I bought into that stock and the market crashed in on my face when I discovered your watch had actually been pawned. I paid $25 not to let that watch be sold to Pawn America. And even when I sent it to Sarasota, Florida to its new owner, I felt even more hurt. How will I ever trust someone to buy them a gift again? When does this shit leave my system? Why do yaw get to leave me like this and not care about how it affects my future????
To that point, how dare you suggest I’m anything other than your Queen of perfection. I told you my secrets and just like the men before you, you used them against me. The only thing you didn’t do, which you still may have and I just don’t know, is tell my mother private things I told you. My other exes did that. They told her I was gay. I slept with women. You didn’t do that but you definitely let me have it about women. You also suggested I was gay and that I never liked men, to begin with. I never wanted you because I wanted a woman. These things, though hellaUntrueAF, hurt me to my bones. I still feel them. That disdain and scowl that someone I loved so much and so openly (a first) talked to me like I was a hoodrat on the street.
But so what right? I should be used to it. I was in an emotionally abusive relationship before. The one that left me in Detroit talked to me like I was the wackest woman alive and as if he regretted ever meeting me. Do you niggas know what I’ve built myself up from? Do yaw know how much nigga shit I had bagged up and hanging off the side of my back? Did you know I had an abortion to hurt an ex? Yep, I sure did. It’s why I can’t have kids. I had an abortion for the sole purpose of hurting the man that hurt me so much prior to it. With that went my ability to procreate ever again. Folks want to know why I don’t want or have kids: that’s it. I tricked myself into believing I didn’t want what I knew I couldn’t have because I killed the opportunity. That’s how much hurt lives in me. That’s why I don’t want to live in this state anymore. I’ve literally been hurting because of my affiliations with men and the choices I’ve made as a result since I was 13. Longer than that if you count the useless pieces of shit who molested me as a child. I hope and pray that retribution found it’s way to them. The one thing I know to be certain is I don’t have to be front row to see you suffer for what I feel like you did to me but it always happens. Karma doesn’t forget.
I am abusive. I am in counseling. I working through my issues. I am trying to be better, do better, get better and HEAL from all these years of madness. I pray for you. . . all of you. I want so badly to believe that there was something about me that you actually did love but man, I’m far away from that. Every time I think I do believe it, I remember other shit that swears to me love couldn’t exist for this to be true. I don’t wish ill will on you. I don’t want harm for you. I don’t even want someone to leave you in the shattered pieces that I was left in. I blame myself for my broken pieces. I never save myself when given the opportunity. I always choose love – the love of YOU – not me. And that’s been my grandest life mistake. Choosing delusions of nigga granduer over me.
I’m still angry. You ruined every single trip I had. Every one of them. Every time I returned home, I came home to some shit. Some arguing. Some man who didn’t trust me to be out of his eyesight when everything I was doing was for US. I have lost a lot. But I’ve gained an even clearer understanding of exactly who I am and the shit I need to confront. I probably won’t believe in love again until I believe that I deserve it. Part of me thinks I don’t. I’m broken and infertile. I’m tired and low on steam. I don’t want to compromise ME for love. I want love to see me and want me; not want to change me completely and turn me into a Stepford and then walk off into the sunset when it doesn’t work for them. On tv, they come crying and running back with gifts and new, improved personalities, ready to win her back. In real life, you niggas catch a lifeboat and don’t even turn around to watch me drown. Maybe you hope I’ll get eaten by a shark.
But I have news.
I didn’t. I didn’t get eaten. I made it to shore and I can’t even swim. Water has never scared me and maybe that’s why I nosedive in, ready to swim laps with you. The unfortunate truth is I end up swimming those laps alone. The fun part is watching your ex who mistreated you go find the woman of his dreams and treat her properly. It’s a low blow for self-esteem to be honest. I’ve lived that life too. If I could have predicted that I would end up how and where I am right now where men and love are concerned, I highly doubt any of us would have met. These lessons would have been better learned from conversations and books instead of living through them. But I survived.
The end of me.
I survived the end of me repeatedly. Devon. Damon. Randy. And the non-ex Diesel. Naw I ain’t fucking changing names to protect the guilty and unbothered. I also will NEVER date another man who is not tall and whose name starts with a D. But –
guess what???!!! I didn’t DIE my niggas. I DID NOT ETERNALLY DIE!!!!!
Each one of you, be it on purpose or otherwise, killed me.
I’ve died four times since I was 22. I’m 39. I’m not dying anymore until God says so. Who made you niggas God??? Me?
I believe indeed it was me.
I made you God. And you killed me and laughed while driving off the parking lot.
Hell yeah, we park cars.
But the good thing that I got from reaching out to you today, attempting to do the unnecessary, is your response reminded me that I was never enough for you. Or maybe too much. I just wasn’t what you needed and wanted. I took all these pictures in one relationship – I may have mentioned this in a previous blog. I took them so that one day I could look back and see what loving you looked like on ME.
But don’t forget – I’m friends with photographers so I will never stay looking like that. I’m perfect for me. Even. In. My. Flaws.
I love me. I will graduate with my Bachelor’s next year and be able to work all over the country and the world to be honest. I am a DOPE ass writer. I love with all of me and although I see it as as flaw, it’s still a pretty cool thing. Most people don’t love with half of who they are.
I love who I am and what I stand for. I know what I deserve and although I’ve often accepted less in hopes that I could make you niggas see the light in me and respect it, I always knew that I didn’t deserve the shit that was happening to me. And yaw didn’t deserve my light. I didn’t deserve to not be trusted. I didn’t deserve to walk home from Guion Road. I didn’t deserve to walk back in Detroit. I didn’t deserve to be cussed out on Christmas. Or to be relegated to being SEX only. I didn’t deserve your pressure. Your hurt. You disrespect. Your lies. Your cheating. Your white or black women. I didn’t deserve YOU.
The foreshadowing music is different these days.
I know who I am. And whether you saw it or not, I am dope. I got shit to work on DEFINITELY, but I AM working on it – not trying or hoping or planning to – I AM!! And that just makes me even doper.
Shame on all of you for walking past The Color Purple and not acknowledging what you saw. Shame on your blindness.
The only thing I left to say is I’m still fucking here bitches.
I’m still here. You didn’t kill me good enough.
I’ll let the music take it from here . . .
“I don’t need you to love me
I don’t need you to love
I’ve got my sister, I can feel her now
She may not be here, but she’s still mine
I know she still love me
Got my children, I can’t hold them now
They may not be here, but they still mine
They know I still love them
Got my house, it still keep the cold out
Got my chair when my body can’t hold out
Got my hands doing good like they s’posed to
Showing my heart to the folks that I’m close to
Got my eyes though they don’t see as far now
They see more ’bout how things really are now
I’m gonna take a deep breath
Gonna hold my head up
Gonna put my shoulders back
I’m gonna flirt with somebody
When they walk by
I’m gonna sing out
I believe I have inside of me
Everything that I need to live a bountiful life
And all the love alive in me
I’ll stand as tall as the tallest tree
And I’m thankful for every day that I’m given
Both the easy and hard ones I’m livin’
But most of all, I’m thankful for
Lovin’ who I really am
Yes, I’m beautiful
And I’m here
PS: My Yoast SEO details that my readability needs improving. Fuck improving for you. Down to the wire my G.