Bathing Guilt

I’m here trying to forgive myself again. Looking to redeem each minute before I let promiscuity long surpass you. Longing for touch when that was a most childishly brave thing to do. Before we could thaw, and melt, and boil. In this infested pool of unholy remains, I’ve granted lavender the power over my divide, to condemn me for what’s been planted between your thighs. Your lover knows my name, and your body remembers me, because I hold you to those offenses.



“What kind of day is today going to be?”

I spoke to myself directly and succinctly, one that didn’t really warrant a response because, in a sense, I wasn’t asking, but demanding. I was desperately trying to call it out, whatever it was (it was you), and reel it in before it could suffocate the day. But just like a woman who fails to exercise her intuition frequently, I would be ambushed. You seeped through my defenses and consumed my imagination. Which knowing me, is much worse than my thoughts. Thoughts reflect reality, and I live under the surface. Today you lived there with me. I wouldn’t quite say I surrendered, but I didn’t defend myself against remembering. Don’t expect me to tell you what I had seen or what I feel about it. That level of self-deprecation no longer suits me. But most innocently, it was sweet. And that’s what drags me down, the good of it all. Those pieces that stand out and irritate my gaze in the most calming way. In the way, irritation arises briefly after you’ve broken the single most beautiful item you’d been saving since you were little. Because what gives it the weight to fall, what pushes it over the edge, is time. The longer something lasts, the more time we spend finding reasons to allow its absence to break our hearts (whether it’s worth the heartache or not) and who knows such answers to the matters of a wounded soul. But that is why I mustered up the authority to call out my truth because it never lies.


And so after a night of celebrating the victim, I was jolted awake. Eyes wide with no evidence of what had demanded my consciousness. I opted for a second opinion as I gently folded my eyes shut. 

Eyes open. 

‘Good morning,’ she whispered, is what I recall. Her unequivocal nature was to whisper, to gently approach mastery. She stood before me, baring her breasts, the florescent light targeting the nape of her belly and casting a shadow to the trimmed willow between her thighs. I couldn’t imagine her face for the rawness of her skin banished my gaze, but she was beautiful, incandescent. That’s what I could make out through bowed eyes peering horizontally towards her.

In the morning, music plays. All is silent so you can hear the music play. Your breath sighs the faint tune of a guitar inhaling before its next strum. Your thoughts settle to a beautiful hum, one you can almost sway to. And before you can nourish your disposition, your stomach swirls around and belts its favorite tune, over and over again. Before the day begins, all is pure, nothing yet can be violent. Between the walking tempo and traffics, the peak is a sacred place to be. No one would dare kill a man during these moments, for he would be utilizing its blessing (the prime of the morning) to prepare for the kill. Yet, what a beautiful way to die, before anything can begin, everything waiting for you to rise, to bare. 

Her eyes remain on me, she is unashamed of surrendering to her budding essence. Still, she is immovable, non-threatening. Aware, but not exposing. The nature of her is nautical. It makes you feel light, as though floating weren’t enough, so you’ve come back down; she is the cascade. I recall my thoughts (predating their silence) requesting a quick, rescindable moment of her time. She is continuous. Her movements seemed to precede mine, so we followed her, and we danced. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a morning, the last time I’ve set aside all intention to kill the day. I put down my plotting weapons to disarm beauty with tasks, denying fulfillment with expectations, killing the mythology of self through deprivation of joy. Refusing to dance with me. 

Eyes wide with my spirit fixed on consciousness, I opted for a second chance. 

Heart open. 

Mornings are for sipping tea, with fermented turmeric, for healing, and loving yourself enough to look her in the mirror and deem her worthy. To spend moments painting her magical and mysterious. They should never start out perfect, no, contrary, mornings are flawed and straightforward; they are moments and pauses filled with you. 

Leaving home

The further I stray from you, the more I can love you.
I need for my heart to remain unhinged,
to fail at love and discover a new way to let love in.
I need to search for you in every man I come across,
to convince them to love me so I can convince me that I am lovable despite what you’ve preached.
I need to be lovable.
I need to love myself,
despite your judgment or the people who stand on your side.
I need to be okay with you not being okay.
And that has been the most challenging decision of my life, choosing me.
And that has been the most difficult decision you’ve had to accept, the absence of me.
I need to be wrong about love
I need a loss to deepen my understanding of tenderness.
But I don’t know if your lack will bring me back to us or simply be the loss of you.
I need to find out; to be absolutely sure.
I need to know who I became with you isn’t who I am,
that I can become someone without you.
And if I must love someone else to see who I can be, that’s what I will do, to be more for you, more for me.
If you are my forever, I will always return.
You can never get lost on your way back home.

Lessons from Virginia & Richard

Something about me misses the desolate isolation of that city, the way it demanded absolutely nothing of me. Even the sun shone like it didn’t belong, forever cowered behind an iron community of clouds. Between those city lines, right off Bland and Jefferson, I found an existential bliss in my torment. No part of me lacks pain, but healing is a new reality I am unwilling to accept. Richard has encouraged me to speak my truth, to trust that the people I have chosen to love may not be as taking as those iron clouds above Virginia. But I cower like the sun, shining only to benefit those needing resurrection. Now I question the validity of my death. Do I think myself god, to sacrifice my soul for the redemption of all? Or do I live? Both require me to value my own existence, which Richard theorizes that I don’t and possibly why I don’t eat. I have no want to die, but I am having a difficult time understanding life. I am a jaded woman. Unable to journey on for individual rectitude.

On July 24th, I cried until sleep confronted me. This is something I reject, my yielding posture to rejection. But it rains and wets my muted tan blouse, the cotton one, that vaguely shows my tattoo through thin fibers woven for warmth, and that doesn’t stop me. I am earth, represented by the astrological bull. Nature cannot reject me, it is the destroyers of the soil who erode my essence. Richard thinks I give too much credit to others, he is always saying, “you have the control to alter such truth.” Richard is one of the positive men who wake up before dusk and sleep with no beauty by their heads. I wonder what he claims to be his truth. What a pretentious woman I can be. I will only take counsel from whom I see fit. So it is decided, I will die to save the souls of everyone.

Although I may find no value in myself, I thirst for the acceptance of others. I need you to love me, to think me incomprehensible. I have the imagination of a child, and because of it, I believe I am more prone to fantasy; to living inside and managing without. The stories I can tell only to lock away my truth. Knowing just what information to give to seem personable yet omitting any fact of who I am entirely.