«The Black woman is the most unprotected, unloved woman on earth…she is the only flower on earth…that grows unwatered.»
I’ve spent most of my life imprisoned.
Spending what little freedom I have
to teach myself not to dependent on
someone who could forget about me,
easily, by not remembering to call
or to see to see I’m not going anywhere
because I don’t have an anchor to hold
or home away from this ocean of thoughts.
It’s kind of kind— just enough to make you quiet.
Just enough to make coal look shiny.
I just want to feel free in the warmth of another
without feeling the lack of cold that’s always here.
There’s nothing chimerical about that.
It’s jeopardy and a plea too expensive to pay soberly.
Drinkin’ Me Lonely by Chris Young
"And Lord, it’s more than just thirsty that I’m feeling inside. Cause these tears I’ve been crying have left me bone dry"
We make a mess of ourselves and
expect someone to call it beautiful;
knowing it’s unrecognizable.
Waiting after their solemn truth to
apologize or declare that we are
pleased as humanly possible.
Pardon all the facial expressions
that suggest joy or hate.
Referring to high school
asking what do I like
and have a passion for.
Expecting to find some mediocre
bullshit job or commitment that should
have been included or the 20% more
I think God owes me from childhood.
It’s a test I failed amongst
friends I retake, as an adult,
scrapping for answers.
There’s a bottom to hope
that shows you just how
far you drifted from the surface
and the mess you are.
Someone told me to walk away before
I get hurt, “I’m already in love.”
My god, you are beautifully drowning;
beautifully, you are drowning.
I think you’re a bee charmer.
Charmers are smooth talkers with their warmth;
until one day you let them in
unconsciously still buzzing
from the first day you saw
the naked them that few have seen.
They search for gold and take whatever they get, proud of it and themselves.
She’s fire that flares when she laughs.
She’s cold water just in time.
She’s calmly beautiful— subtle.
And everyone reminds me of it
asking where is she and
what exactly happened this time.
Honey is good any time of year
but getting stung still buzzing
from a forest of dripping gold
is a level of purgatory. You know—
some people put themselves through hell just to find crumbs of gold.
And there is no honey worth that.
«I have decided to stick to love… Hate is too great a burden to bear.»
I used to worry about
how big I was in your head.
Whether it was similar to the
way I was treated or how we hugged.
I’m forgetting things too
small to call them a mistake.
Car rides, little jokes—
Simple things. Inevitable and simple.
I miss you more than
any bird without a home
and wave just going no where.
Simple things bigger than themselves.
But they aren’t bigger than
the need for me to be alright first.
If you have to choose yourself
And something else—
there will never be a choice.
Self is more important than
the uncertainty of any bond or unity.
She’s got this look on her
face like she’s waiting for
me to leave so she can explode
about how I make her feel.
A few pounds and more
will be lost along with sleep.
Consistently trying to find a sane
way to numb or delay the moment
when it finally sets in.
Time doesn’t heal anything.
You learned to love them
and you learn to be without them.
It’s not a jacket to wear for security
or listening to garbage for advice.
Or deciding whether to keep quiet
to lessen the blow or truth.
Ultimately, and sometimes too late—
you realize when you should have left
instead of living in the potential
it will work or be mutual.
But that’s the anxiety of waiting
ad wanting to make sure. Precisely sure.
Sometimes when a woman’s skin
sparkles it’s just the embers
of a fire you wish you could tame.
The warm of comfort is easily
seen as a high hope or chimerical.
It doesn’t feel as nice in the cold.
Do know her skin is not gold—
She’s generously glowing from
the last time someone tried
to put her out or hold her.
Skin doesn’t radiate or glow.
It’s not about who lit the flame
or who was full of the most smoke.
It was beautiful while it lasted
and I will miss it beautifully.
The day I realized I would
be someone you used to call
comfort and home; I got
piss drunk on my balcony.
I was lost and finally
airing out surprisingly lucid.
Alone and a few sheets under the wind just me and my feelings.
Expensive tequila, the red
jacket and music too low
to drown out but still there.
But this time. Not this today.
It was a good day until I drove
past your favorite tree and stepping on puzzle pieces in the closet.
And I’ve just about sworn
off alcohol afraid I’ll
form a habit in it running
from closure and you again.
But if I was already pushing you
away why did I stay?