A lot of times we find ourselves missing the person that has caused us the most pain.
As much as we hate to admit this, they were the one’s who reminded us that being human is more than just beauty.
The ugly exists and we cling to it because for most of us it’s what we call home.
And that’s all we know.
Don’t ask me if I think I am beautiful.
I will tell you no.
I have no problem rolling up my sleeves and showing you all of my scars.
That’s crazy isn’t it?
My scars were so ugly, they now have a story of their own.
My scars will tell stories of my insecurities.
I pick a part my soul and lay it out for the world to criticize.
I am afraid to be alone, yet I push the ones who love me the most away.
I am damaged goods.
I am fragile….
Please always handle me with care.
I am held hostage by my anxiety.
She keeps me up at night and she won’t leave me alone.
Can you tell her to go away, so I can fall asleep in peace.
Because of her, I barely recognize the curves in my flesh.
I don’t know who I am.
I am tired of falling asleep at 3am next to my lover.
Feeling alone next to his silhouette that fits so perfectly next to mine.
I stare at him breathing just to make sure that he is not a figment of my imagination.
I often wonder what it would be like to fall in love with myself.
How do you fall in love with a stranger in the mirror?
How do you unpack the pain that binds you from learning who you really are?
How do you love someone when you don’t love yourself?
Do you know ?
Do you see me ?
My curls blow in the wind.
You can’t break me down.
My melanin is pure gold.
My thighs bare secrets of my soul.
My voice is to not be whited out like my brothers.
Their flesh is the outline of our red, white, and blue.
Do you see us?
We are beautiful.
If society loved us the way they do our culture…
The world would be a better place.
-In the mind of a Black Woman
You’re my poetry when I can’t find the words to say.
You’re my pen when the ink runs out and my heart is longing for the stability of expression.
You’re my creativity when my mind begins to run full speed towards my soul.
You’re my way back home.
I love you.
……… “The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?” – Holly Golightly
I remember seeing Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When Holly said this quote, I simply felt like she was describing me. I understood exactly what the mean reds meant. It was a battle I always lose. Anytime Holly got that feeling she would go right over to Tiffany’s to keep her mind at ease. I never found anything to make me feel like Tiffany’s. Not a single place or even a person.
Today the mean reds came knocking. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was locked in my head, stuck in a repetitive loop of negative energy. I wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t form. I wanted to scream but my voice just wasn’t loud enough. I had all these emotions building up but no place to go and no one to talk to. Writing is as close to Tiffany’s as I will ever get. It’s the only outlet I have where I can be unapologetically raw about my feelings.
There is beauty to being a writer. I think in some way, all writers are sad. It’s something special about being in the dark spaces of our mind and having the ability to turn it into a work of art. It’s scary too, sometimes we get stuck there. Most times we don’t know how to create without it. However, we aren’t afraid to go there because one way or another we have to tell our stories. It’s the only thing that keeps us afloat of all the mental demons we fight through. To all my writers, YOUR mind is a series of artwork just waiting to hang along the Mona Lisa’s of the world. Don’t let the mean reds stay mean for too long.
I’m out of my mind.
Please leave me a message.
I recorded a voicemail just for you
It says : “ I hate myself and I want to die.”
Do you even care that my mind is scattered?
I can barely leave this room.
Is this what heart break feels like?
Our pictures and my words were nothing more than a summer romance.
I’m out of my mind.
Please leave me a message.
Tell me your new girl is the girl with the long curly hair.
Who listens to bachata and has an ass as round as a globe.
Tell me her curves tell stories of passion.
Her hazel eyes remind you of the moments when our lips slurred from drunken nights.
I hope her legs hold the rhythm to your heart.
She doesn’t know that beneath the smile, a esqueleto has claimed your closet.
I hope you understand her when she says Amor, te quiero mucho.
Do you love her?
Will you fall in love with the blue eyed girl who lives across the street next?
I hear she dances.
Isn’t that your type?
A woman free enough to know pain, so they never see you coming.
I saw you coming, I just chose to look at you through a rose colored glass.
She is beautiful…
Not because of the stride in her walk.
Nor the words that fell from her lips.
Her beauty came from the complexion of her skin.
Her eyes did the talking for her.
Her thighs fit the shape of my palms perfectly.
I wanted to taste her garden.
Feel her soil in between my hands.
I was drawn to her vines and leaves that fell from her body.
Her body captivates me.
I lust for this woman.
I do not love this woman.
Her beauty is not enough.
I need to be mentally stimulated to make a woman’s bed my permanent home.
I will be the most beautiful thing she has ever experienced.
I will destroy her.
Her garden will never be the same
My footprints are embedded.
I will break her.
She will never understand why pain and love know each other’s name.
When she closes her eyes at night, she will see me.
I will be singing her a song- reminding her of who she once was.
Broken, yet beautiful.
Indeed she was….. Beautiful.