prose
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He’s waiting for the girl he met and loved to return to himBut she’s gone now.A woman returned in her place.Damaged by mistreatment from strangers.Aching to be that girl once more.The one that he held at the beach that cool Summer night.The one that he took to the movies.The one that he drove to the
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More pain than woman. Not so easy to dismiss. Feelings of regret Singed my damaged lips. Fear struck a cord So deep inside, I admit I never heard the tune it played But felt it was disjointed The damage flowed freely From one soul to the next Cycles of inadequacy Coupled with trauma Doubled by
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The people I love are shadows Because they no longer exist. They are trapped in my memory. Mere shadows of what they used to be. Thoughts of what was and what will never be. Fading with time as everything does. But the pain never really goes away.
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I’m not an architect but I keep making plans Hoping one day the world would fit in the palm of my hands Praying that one day I could make you mine But loving you is like watching the sun rise It’s beautiful and brilliant but it’s not only for me But honestly you’re the woman
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January Winter doesn’t feel the same anymore. I miss the bitter cold Winters of my youth. The ones where the cold would sink into one’s bones. It physically hurt to breathe. Those are the winters that I miss. Because I could make an excuse for the tears in my eyes. Tears of sadness, frustration, anger.
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Asking for another new beginning seems redundant at this point. Yet here we are, on the precipice of something great, or so it would seem. My body is too fragile. To suffer another loss would be devastating. So please, let me have this tabula rasa. For the final time.
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In the face of a white man, I’ll always be a black woman. I only get to be myself when I’m by myself. Gender, identity, preferences blur then fall away all together. I don’t have to pretend to be everyone that I’m not. I’m tired of trying on someone else’s persona in order to feel
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Please pick up the phone. You need to know the truth. My heart aches knowing that I’m lying to the person that I love. But there’s this weight I’ve been carrying for far too long. This feeling of discomfort fills my stomach. The thought of a future where my mistakes no longer haunt me. That’s
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To all those who wanted to see me fail, you got your wish. I failed beautifully and triumphantly. My failures pushed me to the depths of cruelty, Touched and desired by men who wanted nothing but to see me bleed. For your enemies root for your downfall.
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The perfect Sunday does exist. It’s me laying in bed listening to my person type away at the computer. The mouse clicks and keyboard clacks sound determined. It’s the perfect background noise coupled with the fan that hits ever so gently. Is this what peace feels like? I never got to experience a restful Sunday
Trapped In The Margins 