Seaux.

I have a serious fear of something happening to my parents and not knowing until it’s too late. Both of them like to keep things hidden in a fear of “worrying me.” And it’s somewhat understandable? (except I’m probably the calmest person in my family.) But the older I get, the bigger the fear grows. Last year, my mom had a breast cancer scare and I didn’t know until she was out of the hospital. My dad is incredibly discreet about everything concerning his health. I’m honestly afraid of a lot of things (insects, geese, death, etc) but this is probably my biggest fear. There’s nothing easy about living.

This might be tmi but…

I never have clothes on anymore at home.

The birthday suit is the best suit.

I just bought three pairs of heels and a Dashiki for twenty dollars.

I refuse to dispute my title as Best Discount Shopper. It’s not happening.

I’m slowly realizing the importance of separating the minority feminist movement from the white feminist movement.

Sometimes separation is necessary to achieve equality.

Wait.

I really do hate Andrew Torrence though.

 That’s tumblr official.

John H. thinks I only write feminist poetry. He’s right.

I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place

and my aggression is getting hard to handle

meanwhile my legs have a natural calling to the edge of a strangers bed,

my lips do not sleep in the presence of men;

my arms are inclined to swim between sheets that delve

like banks and shores that lie flat like Nefertiti’s temples.

I am not a romantic unless your body calls for it 

and I can work a perfectionist routine that consists of

calculated bends and breaks of back at your disclosure.

I am not just some touch in the corner

Or a fling to be escorted straight through the side door.

I am passion that explodes like a violent hiccup,

A bodily flame that illuminates ungodly cathedrals.

My waist an equator that separates flowing currents of thought and action

And fanaticism for touch runs thick and heavy in my blood. 

(unfinished)

I’m no longer built to live at home.

I’ve been home for approximately twenty minutes and it just doesn’t feel right. I have the gut feeling that this summer is going to be one of constant fighting with my parents, only because I’ve gained a sense of freedom that they can’t really grasp. I’m no longer used to calling when I’m going to be out late, or making an effort not to be obviously high, or having to think before making impromptu trips to a different state. I don’t know, there’s been a lot more decision making on my part that they don’t agree with. I’ve definitely been assuming my role as the family’s black sheep lately, and I know it’s only going to get worse as time goes on. 

I really enjoy referring to myself as a man lately.

There’s power in masculinity and I’m a feminist but I want to refer to my imaginary balls sometimes, too.

idc idc idc. 

Financial Aid, Student Accounting, & The Registrar’s Office all fucked me over simultaneously.

I can’t believe things have turned out to be so awful. 

There has to be a positive in here somewhere. 

This got the Professor November seal of approval (Y)

It’s almost as if my mind is a roadblock

the way I stay stagnant, stuck and flatbellied

high on gravel and wet paint.

someone told me that this has all been done before. 

Cursive steadily undresses plain language 

sometimes

my words are deeper than my accent

but the voice recorders playback static captures of emptiness.

sometimes 

I beat the modernist horse to death and crawl back into my foxhole

and more than often 

my mind’s boyfriend wears native east african clothing

because love is international enough when your mind hovers far above the east coast.

sometimes

I croon like Billie Holiday for a hand to lace my own with

while my voice cracks, broken with nooks for love to creep in.

And I let her.

It’s almost as if my mind is a hangnail

guilt-ridden and weak, 

dying for someone to pick at it,

or lift it to some high esteem like a scholar does words

sometimes

it is flipped and scripted with rhymes and

sometimes

indistinguishable gut pains translate into heavy ties

that squeeze my hands into places i don’t want them. 

sometimes

I really am just a cerebellum

and more than often

I am just a festering wound. 

It seems like the mental hunger is realest as the hand hits the two

As my mind and body debate engaging themselves like lovers often do

If I only could have thought to write the holy books first 

noted as a man among men

but instead my useless brain lays

thick as Arabic script

freehand and undermined.