I call him Azucar, the Spanish word for sugar
The way his words sit on my spirit like honey, sweet and steady,
He entices me with a magic I can not explain..
Chance encounters, he said he has observed me from a far, chose me out theropod, although word on the street is that I’d be nothing more than a number to him, one in a million women he can/does get because “a fuck is least of his worries”; or so he says he’s looking for someone to trust without giving reason to have earned the same.
“Fuck me” i say every time I think about how he dicked me down epically… In a way I haven’t been handled since I submitted and gave my life to he who shall not named.
Now that I, single, independent, empowered, self-employed artist woman in charge of my own destiny, manifesting life like you breathe, has choice; bartering time for money… Taking on lovers as I see the fit my needs at that moment, knowing he ain’t trying to claim me; figured a hustler could respect those trying to pay me, knowing I save all the things that mean something for one I find worthy.
It unfortunate he wasn’t.
Proved that he’d waste my time [#2017] before respecting my intelligence and hustle. Ain’t nobody got time for that when it’s just me, myself, and I at the end of the day. Going “home” to a bed that mirrors my heart; empty.
I felt comfort laying in him as the sun came up. I live in the memory of his gaze, looked at me like I am beautiful. Everytime. Not just when I was naked. Makes me believe it. Believe I am more tha, pretty for a black girl. (The best I had heard till 20 or so)
Maybe it was the electricity that passed through our hands the first time they touched. Introduction as magic. When magic is manifestation. When it feels real but isn’t.
I let his kisses sit on my thighs and his words sit on my spirit like honey. For theyre sweetness. They are steady. They are a wish for a day that never comes. Tomorrow. He always says tomorrow. A sweet dream indeed.
I call him Azucar, the Spanish word for sugar. Sweet as his words that sit on my spirit like honey. Let them run through me, soothing the sting of my loneliness.
We [women] would tell ourselves it’s not that deep;
Except usually it is.
When a mans actions are nothing different than all others a woman encounters.
I call it “every other nigga syndrome” – when he think he special with his sweet words and empty promises of tomorrow, a day that never comes…
And we [women] abandon our better judgement for a moment of pleasure, multiple voicemails echo regret that. She ever let herself believe she would ever be more than just a body to a man.
We [women] be remind in every interaction that pussy will always drive men not employ an arsenal of tactics in their pursuit of it.
An we [women] I’m pursuit of what it feels like to be loved by someone other than ourselves, let our guard down… Give in to our illusions, satisfy our baser instincts, let lust wash over us like a tidal wave..
We [women] be the beach after a storm, same as we were yet somehow changed.
(you know who you are)
By now I am beginning to think you know who I am too.
I’m last certain that you had no idea that almost two years later we would still be at it like this.
Still be a tangle of brown bodies engaged in teaching pleasure to each other , like we ain’t never loved like this before. And make no mistake, this is indeed love.
Maybe not the cookie cutter, going steady, intentional kind. We ain’t got time for that type of love and I got no interest in breaking or birthing another heart [unintentionally].
This still be love. It be that messy, sweaty, sticks to your cheeks, nectar as lip balm and I still want to kiss you type of love. The lets switch positions without disconnecting from each other, and then fall asleep resembling tree roots and wake up still wrapped in the limbs of each other type of love. That type where I still see you clearly in the dark, let you hold, tie, restrain, choke, spank, blind, lick, touch, & tease the taste of me till I can’t wait to be swallowed whole by you.
This is indeed love. It’s that we don’t need to speak too many words when we’re together, just allow hands to always find a way to touch bodies, we don’t have to put shit out on social media for commentary, dontgivetwo fucks about the opinions of others,I’m still going to see you as often as I can anyway, even if it means I’m riding the train for an hour and a half because you stayed up to wait for me, greet me at sunrise with kisses at your door type of love.
Truth be told,if it weren’t for Mirena, this could be a wreck less, hell yes I’m keeping this baby and we gonna work it out type of love. Thank the gods for small favors and common sense, and experience and a jaded heart that you somehow cracked through without trying.
This poem isn’t trying to tell you anything, except that I love you in this same way that you love me. Pure, unintentional, passionate, accepting, fluidly, trusting, openly, honestly, when we both happen to have the time. So until next time,please accept my gratitude.
And things of such nature.
I’m only writing now because I won’t feel like writing later. And if I’m really committed to making myself proud, then procrastination must become an abandoned child. Its been an intense month. A rough ending to a mostly good year. I feel depression trailing two steps behind me, so it’s time to pick up the pace. Force myself to leave the comfort of home and reintegrate myself in the human world because otherwise, I just may cease to exist.
Even when it seems like a bad idea; What else can I really do? I can’t stay home holed up and away from the world I have been so boldly asserting myself into over the past 4 years. Some time ago I made myself a goal of improving my integrity. Being a woman of my word and not just wrapped up in my own world. Most times it has been good. Most days this year, I felt as if I was winning. Then December brought fake summer and everything went side ways. All my resolve crumbled as my life turns into a steaming pile of manure.
The pressure I can take. Being broke I can figure out. Conflict I can face. But I don’t deal well with trauma. I’m even worse with death. Just when I was beginning to heal, I lose two family members this month within a week of each other. A fact I haven’t shared with many people unless they really need to know. (I mean what is there really to say about death? Can anyone ever really be comforted?) While I know there are friends that are willing to share a shoulder, I usually keep the realest stuff to myself. I hate to cry, so when I must I keep to myself. Think about going out but never quite make it. I bask in the solitude of my mind and stay there hooked like an addict. Solitude be my favorite drug. The organized chaos of it all works for me when I need to bathe in quiet and comfort until I no longer feel pain. And then I get around people and again the world goes sideways. During these times I become a snow globe in a paint mixer. Unable to settle. Being an empath, people create confusion in my experience of moments when I’m in these states. What I’m actually feeling melds with perception of how I’m being perceived. I can’t tell the difference. I can’t seem to push myself out of my thoughts and exist in real time. I second guess everything I think to speak. I’m fidgety and flustered. I feel odd, eventually removing myself from people; which makes me weird. Or self preserving. I’m not quite sure which.
People that I call friends are always reminding me through advice and their actions that whatever I’m going through can be overcome. Lately, I’ve been watching the world with a heavy heart only attempting to interact with it. Fighting the stalker called depression at times feels like I’m only succeeding at destroying myself publicly. Feels like the effort it took for me to get dressed, be somewhere other than the stoop & talk to someone other than the bodega man is energy wasted. That maybe letting myself fall down the rabbit hole and fade into oblivion would be a better choice. But then I look around the room I’m in and realize nobody cares about me so little that they are judging me. I remember that it’s worth being a witness to life happening as long as I am still living it. That staying wrapped up in my blankets won’t change a damn thing. The world will continue to turn. So today I said fuck being depressed. Fuck running away from potential conflict. Fuck being the middle man to other folks drama. Fuck perception. Be who I am. Be where I am supposed to be. And do what I said I would do. Tomorrow is another day that will still come, whether I participate or not. Ain’t nobody got time to be depressed.
“Because of being lost in our own minds, we fail to recognize that the truth changes. When truth changes and we fail to recognize what has now become true, while holding on to the idea of what used to be true, we become liars committing suicide.” -Brad Blanton, “Radical Honesty”
I’ve been reading this book, Radical Honesty, that the above quote comes from. So far I’m half way through it. For a couple chapters, I was feeling good about myself because everything this book said, I already did. I live in honesty, never holding my tongue when I feel a way. Its what makes my art so well received. The fact that I am connected to the highest truth and able to say the things that others are afraid to speak.
Then I got to the chapters dealing with anger. I realized, with my anger, I am not honest. It is an emotion I still hide. Sure, I express my anger with the greater problems of the world: racism, sexism, oppression, the general fucked-up state of the world, etc. But when it comes to dealing with anger on a personal level, I shrink. I suppress it. I do not confront it. When and if I do confront it, its always after it has had time to build up, eventually exploding in a way that can be devastating. I’m recognizing that it’s unhealthy. It is possibly the most unhealthy habit I have carried into my adult life. And I don’t want to live like that anymore.
The book advises to talk to the person face to face. That speaking through the anger you have as it happens so it is released from your being. After releasing the anger, you express appreciations for the person, thus walking through and moving forward together. So, I have decided to write as much as possible about it. Some of these conversations I can’t have any more because those people are dead. Some of these people have simply been lost to me through time and distance. Some of these people, I have tried these conversations with and have shown they simply are not willing to listen nor participate in the process of working through whatever issues stand between us. Instead of chasing ghosts, talking to brick walls, or holding these things in; I am choosing to write them out.
Some of these writings, I will share here. Maybe they can help someone struggling with their own issues. Maybe they will be phenomenal pieces of writing that someone will enjoy reading. I’m not sure what they will be for anyone else. For me, they will be a cleansing. A purification of my spirit which has been clogged with anger for way too long. They will be things that no longer bind me. All I want is to be free.
[insert emoticon here]
They jump with smiles and hugs and such love everywhere I go.. I’m greeted with such love and DAMN!! Do I love it! It’s good to be home..
But there, so far away from my home, where not one knew me, except through story and rumor.. internet searches yielding little to quench their thirst; They too greeted me with hugs.. with smiles.. and with love…
The answer I speak boils down to sun
And who has more.. or whatever that means..
I’m questioning my blackness, like is it too much? not enough? Is it them is it me?
I’ve decided I’m just jetlagged and busy.
Not unlike billionaires…
Like yes I just stepped off a plane and wake up to do a reading of my upcoming book and then attend a backyard hip hop hoot, pass through a reggae black pride art party to lay at home in love. sleep and wake up ready for another busy day.
So where I been? I been busy..
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