There are no fairytale endings for girls like us. Only whispered apologies to broken hearts in the middle of the night. Only places inside of us men use as pit stops on the way to something better. Never staying, never saying why. You will have to rain moving on down your spine. Teach your lungs to breathe without heaving out metaphors. You will have to apologize to your bones for wanting more. Continue reading “The meaning of a fairytale”
I paint with words
Sometimes the pain is a man, a limping man, not because his legs aren’t strong enough, it’s his heart that has walked a thousand miles, only to be met with nothing that wants it
This is the man in my painting, who hears the word promise and his heart translates it to shattering glass, “Please, make it stop. Tell them I’ve heard of promise before, waited with baited breath, but he’s the second coming, the never coming. All I hear is his name as a scream, a broken prayer, an abandoned temple heavy on my chest.” Continue reading “I paint with words”
My birds and bees talk came in the form of hair salon gossip. My mother, Christian woman that she is, never spoke to me about sex. Her advice on the subject consisted of this one instruction, “Don’t sleep with boys, you’ll fall pregnant, and I’ll kick you out of my house.” So sex was pretty much a no go topic at home, but the curiosity that comes with growing up would not let me go through life ignoring this big part of it. I was starting to see boys as more than just people, and pretty soon, if the talks doing the rounds were anything to go by, I’d start having sex with the person I called my boyfriend.
Going to the salon, as much as I hated getting my hair relaxed, was to be my saving grace. This place proved to be a place of learning as much as it was about making me look good. I hated the effects of the relaxer on my hair and how the hairdresser never missed a chance to burn me with the hairdryer, but the stories of these women, the sisterhood forged through the misty air of hair dryers and the smell of hair food is what made the experience worthwhile.
Sometimes love comes to give us a second chance
I was breathing in commas before you came my way
Stranger with hands that reminded me of God
I was merely a fraction of all the tomorrows I let my yesterdays slip away with
But you came and translated my suicidal thoughts into a language only love understands
Thank you for loving me in ink
I hope to hold your heart with the delicacy of one who tames butterflies
I am naming my smile after you
Because I love the taste of your name in my mouth
Painting by Pier Toffoletti
It all sounds so romantic when they say it, when you read their books and they speak about it, not knowing that that would one day be your dream. Living it is a nightmare, punctuated by anxiety induced hysterics of,”Out of all the potential you have, this is what it has culminated into?”. The pursuit of a dream is an act of dying daily, breathing the only reminder that, nope, you are still alive, and every bit of this hell you’re going through is not the one they preach about in church.
Speaking of, you haven’t been to church in a while because, one pain at a time. It is hard enough bearing the pain of disappointing yourself, you don’t wanna look God in the eye and mumble,”I’m still working on it”. He understands, of course He does, but you don’t, neither do your dreams and your best-laid plans. Are you trying hard enough, is the depression giving you enough room to breathe?Do you still know the meaning of a miracle? Continue reading “Writing: The poor man’s job”
“All I seem to hear are these walls, reminding me how long I’ve been alone”
- These drooping eyelids
The stories they hold
How I can no longer look forever in the eye
I’ve promised it to so many people
Writing this didn’t feel like it was enough. I have been seeing bits and pieces of talks about xenophobic attacks on social media. I avoided it as much as I could because it’s such a trigger. I cannot even begin to imagine how it must feel to be on the receiving end of this cruelty, the fear and the pain occurring simultaneously. And I don’t even know where to begin empathizing.
It truly is heartbreaking for me to hear about black on black crime, it is so debilitating to the spirit to hear how we are fighting amongst each other. I have no educational exegesis on the matter, no knowledge of white supremacy and every other academic exposition that seems to be used to get to the root of it.