I feel like dying.

I have always felt a death shroud clouding my thoughts, a mist so powerful that not even the love of my life could make it dissipate

A fog that clings to my lungs like a fish hook, digging into my flesh and pulling apart every bloody ounce of meaning I had left

I feel like dying.

And maybe I’m just trippin, as a black girl should

When everything seems to be crumbling around me, in this internal state of oppression I call my hood

Where suicidal thoughts ring like gunshots

Where my body is a fatherless household lacking God and my daddy

Where my mind and my heart fight a constant turf war

And maybe I’m just trippin, as a woman should

Because my emotions have been carelessly labeled and tossed into this generic idea of black womanhood







But nobody wants to talk about how bad you can burn in the sun, no matter how fucking black your skin is

I’m tired of hearing “Girl, you just need some good dick” or “Just pray about it” and “This too shall pass”

No I don’t.  No, I won’t.  And no, it will never pass.

I feel like dying.

Dead ass.

The world is a miserable gray now and everything moves too fast.

I am running and gasping for air

Chasing happiness, love, inner peace

Yet everyone and everything seems to be sprinting further and further away from me


But maybe I’m just trippin, like all these black girls be.



9 PM

I sat up in bed and closed my eyes, reaching, feeling, clawing for a presence I knew wasn’t there

I didn’t expect it to be there. I knew that I had deserted it, that I had failed

The emptiness shook me so that I could not shed a tear

So I just sat there waiting, emotionless, an empty vessel

And in that moment I knew what I had to do

I opened my mouth, ready to beg and cry, to explain myself and make up another lie

But instead I whispered:

“God…please help me find myself, so that I can find you.”

The Suburbs Pt.2 – Mirrors

Making love to her is complicated.

Her almond brown eyes are covered with a teary glaze whenever she looks at me, as if she’s on the verge of sobbing.  She never looks at me long enough to shed any tears though.

Her soft and supple sienna skin melts into the tips of my fingers whenever I caress her left cheek marked with fading splotches of mahogany where her acne scars used to be.   I press myself against her until I can smell the faint scent of Shea butter radiating from her pores.  She likes when I do that.  I run my fingers down her arms,  tracing stretch marks and self-harm scars.  She doesn’t like that.  I do it anyway, just to remind her of where we came from and how much I love her.  Every single thing about her.

I apologize for hurting her, I never meant to.  I told her that if I didn’t truly love her, she would be dead by now.  I know it sounds self-righteous but it’s true.

I have an obsession with her flaws.  The flesh on her belly ripples in waves whenever she is in motion. Sometimes I imagine myself as a sailing ship lost at sea and her tides bring me back to shore every time I feel lonely.

I love tangling my hands into her midnight woolen curls.  Pulling on a coil of frizz, I watch it spring back into place, spiraling and dancing to the rhythm of her musical moans.

I wonder if the neighbors can hear us.  I wonder if they’ve realized they’re living among pure art.  I wonder if they know they’ve experienced a free exhibition of our love.  I wonder if they will regret how badly they talk about our lawn, or their sinister jokes  about how she never comes out of the house. I wonder if they’ll just consider our noise a disturbance, like they always do.

I love the thickness of her thighs, the friction between them, and the way her gentle flesh suffocates me as she sleeps, making my sleepless nights almost bearable.  She hates them though.  She’s always doing weird exercises in awkward positions to “get rid of her cellulite”, but I keep telling her that her size is just right…for me at least.  Why does anyone else matter if I love her already the way she is?   I keep asking her if she’s pursuing someone else, if she’s moved on.  She keeps denying it.  Only me, she says with a mouthful of carrots.  It’s only me, she only loves me.   I am her everything.  She just wants to be the best she can be so –

– yeah right.

I see the way she smiles and hums around the house, pretending to clean.  When I mention their name she looks away, afraid that I’ll be able to read between lines that don’t even exist (because she is an open book that only I have written in).  Someone else has been flipping the pages and now we’re back to chapter one and once again she’s trying to prep herself forsomething  that doesn’t even exist.  What the fuck.

No matter how fiercely, consistently, and passionately I make love to her, I will never be enough.  She will always need validation and inspiration from someone else, something else.  She is an empty vessel and I’ve been pouring pieces of myself into an abyss.