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tOUCH

Hovering over my phone in a weird almost-laying-on-my-stomach position, she began to trace my body with her nail. I was tense because my ex had walked in the house a day earlier than anticipated and we were fucking with my bedroom door open. The door now closed, I hovered and scrolled through my phone anxiously waiting for my ex to leave the house so her and I could continue. Just a few minutes after my ex left, I gingerly collapsed onto the bed, facing away from her. She had been continually tracing me the whole time.
"That feels...nice" I stammered
"Are you okay?" she asked
" Yea, yea" more stammering
" It's just you're not used to it?"
" Right, but it's really nice." I confirmed
" It's my pleasure." she urged
Memorizing each raised hair as she traced my body, I tried to remember the last time I was touched like that. Fuck Coléa, when was the last time the body has been appreciated like this?! I was alarmed.…

30

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Today marks two weeks (and one day) of being 30. Going into it I was hesitant (as if I could slow down time) because the past few months have been tough and I was scared the shitty trend would continue. BUT so far thirty has been great!

I feel the healthiest I've felt in a over a year, probably closer to two years. I feel loved and vibrant. I feel fulfilled and whole. I feel attractive and optimistic. I feel like I'm important in my own life. I am terribly good at enveloping my existence in someone else's; in devoting my life to someone else's happiness, needs, wants. But I've been working to untangle myself from that disposition. Self care is most efficient when consistent.

I believe in setting intentions and manifesting. I believe that we speak, project the trajectory of our lives. So I was nervous about how to speak life into my life, partially because I had forgotten how. I had had this internal conflict of speaking/writing about my life because I didn't w…

The Paris Wife

Years back I read a then popular book, The Paris Wife. The book affected me because I just felt so heart broken and such a connection with the main character, Hadley Hemingway. Hadley was Ernest Hemingways' first wife. The wife he met at home and moved to Paris with and became famous with.
When my ex and I ended, this book immediately popped in my head. I began drawing parallels between Hadley Hemingway's relationship with her (ex-)husband and my relationship with my (ex-)wife. Then I scolded myself for 'being so dramatic;' I mean my ex didn't fuck their mistress while I was in the bed with them, but they were secretly "talking/texting" another woman while we were still together. But my ex didn't get infuriated when I became pregnant, but they did scroll through their phone sitting just feet away while I put my puppy down. But my ex didn't say they couldn't trust me anymore, but they did call me fat and lazy to my and others' face. But my …

love landmark

Today I visited one of our love landmarks. I went there with a friend because it’s beautiful and I wanted to share the beauty with her. I was fine at first even though every plant I touched sent a tiny shock of melancholy through my being.
Then I wasn’t fine. I became exhausted from outrunning these memories. So I sat on a bench, surrounded by plants and memories, and cried. It was annoyingly picturesque. This black femme, surrounded by nature’s beauty, crying about a lost love. I couldn’t outrun the memories. Every leaf, every flower, every rock, every bench had been covered by our proclamation of love. How many rains does it take to wash all that away?
I find myself encountering sweet memories as I go about my day, minding my own business. 
The love landmark where you first called me “my love”… The love landmark where you first announced that you loved me… The love landmarks where we’d revel in cheap tacos or good sushi… The love landmarks where my heart bursted with pride for you… The lov…

Again? Again.

I don't know what it is. If it can be helped. If it's my fault. If I can prevent it. I just don't know. This feels cyclical. I don't feel wrong. But I do feel crazy. I feel like I can't talk to anyone about IT, like the very person I want and need to talk to about it doesn't wanna hear it. But I always hear their shit. I always actively listen and dish advice when prompted and coddle and coo and try to understand and sympathize. So why can't it be reciprocated? It can. It should. Now I'm sitting at home being pathetic while they're out going to the very party I wanted to go to. I am baffled and confused and hurt and broken and frustrated and scared. Is this it? Are we broken for good? My heart feels irreparable. I feel like I fell into this trap. I feel awful. My stomach is in knots; my eyes are exhausted from crying; I feel like the tiniest person. The tiniest, most pathetic person who's outer shell looks deceptively strong. Years ago, when I …

Self vs Sex

A few weeks back I was in conversation with a handful of women about sex. All but me were straight, some married, some single, some in a relationship. The youngest one of this grouping chirped up and said she's 'saving herself for marriage.' No one really batted an eye because we all respect each other and the different lives we choose to lead, but I had to resist the urge to correct her. The language agitated me because it sent me back to a time when I said the same thing: saving myself for marriage.
Let me be clear in saying that I take no issue with a person choosing when they desire to become sexually active. If a 16 year old decides they are ready and knows how to do so safely with a safe partner, then so be it. If a 30 year old who is not yet married wants to wait to have sex with their future spouse, then so be it. If a person decides/feels that they only want to masturbate for the rest of their life and have no sexual contact with another person, then so be it. It…

sometimes being BLACK means...

internally panicking every time an unfamiliar number appears on my screen because this could be the call that iterates the news of a family or friend who was murdered by police

literally being scared of walking my dog in my neighborhood of two years
holding my breath and clinching my jaw every time police pulls up behind or next to me while driving
having to choke back the tears and anger every time I have to go to work after another Black hashtag has been created
panicking every time a police drives by me in my predominately white neighborhood
never getting rest because I never stop being Black.