Me, Undone

They weep. These souls. In bathroom stalls. They walk. They move. They brood and hover. Hang regret like winter coats. They reach out to touch. Opening dry mouths in want so crushing. They live in the unseen. Watch us as we make our beds. Comb our hair. Make love. They come and go. Mark dust in doorframes. They know what we fear. Mumble to themselves of our pettiness, our egos, our need for control. How we push each other away. The cowardice. The hollow desperation. They ache. I returned to find a rose with a note on my pillow. It read, "Nothing else matters. Love."

It has taken shape in the back of my mind, that moving freely as a black lesbian loving other women of color, is an act of rebellion. We are the forgotten ones. The mules of the world. The bodies for which white women write their narratives against. Mirrors. Perverse inversions of womanhood. Fleeting cultural experiences. Backgrounds. There are no amber alerts for brown bodies gone missing. No righteous indignation. Our parts are purposed for sexual amusement and exploitation. Take the money and run. They scar our flesh, then shame us for our tears. Mock our anger. Tell us our lives are of little value. But My love for you will start a revolution. Speaking you. Naming you. Indulging you is a simple act of treason. I reach out to take off your mask. Stretch against my walls. Push out. Take up space. I will worship you, forever. In me, find all those things denied to you. Personhood. Wholeness. Agency. The merging of consciousness. Be not afraid of the gaze, for I am of

Love at first sight.

And when I die, my body will be like cartography. The chafing of my pelvis, of loves come and gone. Lines strung across my face, the laughter, and always the darkness. The arches of my feet will tell of how well I’ve carried. A survey of my hands, revealing bodies held close and long. The shifting of these bones will bear witness to the ache. Skin mounted across muscle, of fear, and of savage courage. And when they come for my heart, like the negro spiritual, it will “tell the story...” of love. Of unimaginable love--overwhelming and bending this body’s riverbanks.

I saw the X-men prequel a few weeks ago and I have been unable to let it go. I left the movie feeling an eerie connection to Mystique's character. She is a mutant so agonizingly human, hiding in plain sight. Like Mystique, I began morphing to survive. It’s a learned sport. As a little girl, I became whatever I was needed to be. Silent. Self-sufficient. Un-needy. The keeper of secrets. I adapted quickly and ferociously, lest I be caught dead. And then there was the move to private school. I shifted into the black girl who “talked and acted white.” Traded my Boys II Men and SWV cassette tapes for Dave Matthews Band and Phish. Packed my bag with turkey sandwiches and baby carrots. I was the agreeable token black student. In college, the masking continued by kissing boys, and eventually marrying one in my early twenties. I hid my love for women with Bible verses. I was the loving wife. The righteous Christian sister. I foolishly thought that in my coming out and move to a m

Anyone can tell you that after occupation comes rebellion. Once now, the insurgency grows. First, a few futile attempts. Then, indomitable chaos. You began the invasion with kind sentiments and gestures. Lining her tongue with your words. Giving her new thoughts, one by one. Taking her god from the mantle and replacing it with your image. Now she knows she must rid herself of you. For good. See her walking down the street with metal and acid taped neatly beneath her purple sundress.

These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light. These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely. These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in. These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.

And when the breeze cups my face, I know that I am alive. If you are reading this, you and I have made it to the other side. Feel the sun in sublime thickness lining your limbs. You are loved. You are love. Open.

This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away. I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass. I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

She wants to fuck me as an act of mercy. To lay me out like a meditation. She wants to push inside of me as a spiritual practice. She is the priestess come to baptise me in shared flood waters. To excise the demons with her hands 'round my waist. She brings her tongue up to my ear to whisper sweet supplications. Incantations. Bless me for I have...over and over. Behind the altar. In my white dress. She performs a healing. Her mouth to my mouth. I gasp for air brought back into my lungs again.

A storm is coming. I can see it savoring and slivering down the way. I sit, on cold floor, patiently waiting for its arrival. I beg for the rain to take its time with me. Wash it away. The once useful, now un/useable. I'm holding still for your hands. Come forth. Show yourself with grace.

So this is heartache. The fallen rosebud. The single egg, unhatched. Bruised and bated breath. It is a miscarriage of the most intimate kind. I open to reveal translucent lining-a stream of hope, love, and lust flowing down my legs. The smell of decay makes me weep. Before you, I questioned whether I could die. I can. Every new day I wake, I die to you.

This passes. The pain of letting go. Resignation so that something cosmicly created can enter. In the meantime, I will fill this void with light source and Nina Simone. Please don't let me be misunderstood.

What story will you tell of our ending? What eulogy will you weave around your tongue shared with hungry friends over Sunday brunch? Inevitably, it will be of my failings. My frailties. My home spun foibles. The hour approaches quickly, my love Ready the blade Make your mark

The assistant principal at my school is a preacher. Ordained, from where, or from whom, I do not know. But I have seen many preachers in my time. The repentant. The former junkies and hustlers with new found tools. It is true. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. He thought me stupid and came to my office with un-welcomed talk about his conversion. He wanted to spar with the Bible. I was more than prepared having been a member of a cult-like church in my early twenties--oh, the ignorance of youth. Through his newly found weapon, scripture, I reminded him that he is no judge, just a fellow sinner, like me. Or perhaps worse. A Pharisee. He gave me a handshake at the end of an hour long conversation and left my office. I finished eating my pizza. His first mistake was believing he had something to offer me. Religion blinds men. I could have, and probably should have thrown some legal jargon on the table to make him realize he was stepping in to the realm of harassment, for which

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees. I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle. There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend. I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away. To know what I am offers no solace. Just calm-like complicity.

I'm going to get up. get out. get on. and love. Skinny dip wearing rainboots. Free fall backward. Sky dive in skin. Cartwheel with my heart strung around my neck.

i want to adorn my hair with flowers. wear leopard tights. draw stars around my eyes. i’ll be that old lady, alright. the one with two different loafers, a rainbow bag fresh from the dumpster, and yellow knit gloves in the blazing summer heat. it wont matter what u think of me. for i will already have been thought of. having outsmarted u. out maneuvered u. outshone u in my existence.  my lover will be beside me. for she loved the core of me. beyond the tired flesh, crinkled scarf, and silver dust in my hair. and i will be my best self. for her. for you.  just wait.

After 55 days, I am no longer sexless in the city! The terrible, self-imposed drought is over! My mood: pensive. That night. The first night. I peered into the darkness to see a crack forming down her spine, and light pouring forth. Instead of looking away, as I have so often done, I held her in my gaze. Something inside of me caught fire. I met her, this woman, the day after I decided to cease frivolous communications and superficial sexual encounters of little consequence. She is self-possessed and fully owned. This connection is weighty. Heady. Scary, indeed. I'm petitioning the universe to give me the strength to hold her tight. Keep my primal self at bay.

We inadvertently saw a movie about fate, love, and magic. Or maybe it wasn't so inadvertent after all. It happened. After 90 minutes, I walked her out to her car, declined our scheduled dinner, and said goodbye. Tears burning hot down my face on the drive home. In the hours after, she sent messages in the sky. Searching for holes along my spinal chord. Biting down in me in hopes of a response. I turned away. But there are still moments when I crave her.  Feverishly trying to wash her scent out of my hair. We are a destructive pairing. She plays victim like a prodigy. Swallowing notes and chords whole. I am always the perpetrator.  She hands me her gun fully loaded. In another life, she met me fully woman. Washed of previous hurts, cleansed of desperation, and devoid of deceit. But not here. Not now. And I hate her for it. I will never not think of her.

Forget about the 30 day blog challenge for now. I've got more pressing concerns in my life.  For one thing, I haven't had sex in 33 days. I'm ready to scrape my eye out with an ice pick. This is senseless! My body is on fire.  I think about sex at least every hour, on the hour.  And I wonder,  can the man standing on the corner smell me? Can the woman glancing at me taste it? My skin is porcelain delicate and hypersensitive. If anyone should brush up against me on the street, in the grocery aisle,  I just might spontaneously orgasm. And nothing, nothing else will satisfy this hunger except the touch of  a woman.  Not self,  not thought, not mediation or yoga. Please. Hurry. Come. Discipline me.

The next phase of the 30 day blog challenge requires me to explain the meaning of my blog name. It's simple. "Me, undone," is me painfully naked and exposed. I write because I exist. Because I exist, I write.

So... I am giving in to the 30 day blog challenge. I'm cleansing from...well, if you've read my blog you know ;-) A girl has got to keep herself occupied. Oh my, this is much harder than I thought.  19 days and counting! The first leg of the challenge is to share 15 random facts about yourself. I had a hard time narrowing down my list--I must be pretty strange. 1. My arms are unusually long 2. I have five tattoos 3. I fenced in college 4. I don't have hair on my arms or legs 5. I eat cheese grits at least twice a week 6. I've been known to laugh in my sleep 7. I'm deathly afraid of owls 8. I hate pears 9. I read "The Bluest Eye" every summer 10.  My only sibling was born eleven months after me  11. I've never eaten pork--except for pepperoni and bacon, but that's not pork. haha 12. I lost my virginity at 23 13. My name means "tranquil" in Arabic 14. I've been the same weight, plus or minus five pounds (winter/summer months), for mo

I’ve shifted. Shaky bones. Everything that was meant for me has arrived. Slowly. In due time. In due time. I am my most radiant self in complement. The polishing. Adoration of thoughts not of my own. The worship of other as extension of self. I miss sober sex. Fresh touch and smell. Secrets. Transferred heat. Waking in the middle of the night to sense her here, there and there. Valentine’s day is for chumps. Love is for the brave. I’ve written you across my skin.

Dominant Dominique dumped me after I told her I still wanted to date other people. I panicked, begged to get her back, sending emails stringed with stars and roses. Her response, a three line professional email that read, “ You are a great person, but it is clear to me we are on two different pages. I prefer to cease all contact.” I almost lost my fucking mind.  My desperation, my sadness, wasn’t for her. I know this now. The wounds were my comeuppance for my carelessness with others. For days, I’ve been frequented by images, the energies of women come and gone, conversations and warm tears, broken bodies in my bed, my mouth on breasts, lips, between legs, and hands on my arms as I gather my possessions to leave. I've spiraled in to nights and days heavy with fits of paralyzing sadness. What have I done? What have I done? I am a thief in crimson lipstick.  I am purging. Slowing down. Thinking over. Closing my legs. I am tired. I want more than I’ve allowed. No more bendi

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights.  I instruct Jessica (not her real name),  a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me.  She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission. On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige. I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank or lie still?  Grab hair or go to my knees? I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention. I cannot choose one or the other, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured up this sit

You were here Manifested six hundred and thirty four moons ago I bear the scar Until we meet again.

I have a slight obsession with a quirky, sapphic leaning movie called "Dogs: The Rise and Fall of an All Girl Bookie Joint." It has got me daydreaming.  I'm starting to draft delusions and spectacular fantasies. You down?

There is a woman cooking in my kitchen after a night in my bed. All I can think of sitting here is how much I want her to go home. Our "meeting" has not made me feel any closer to her. Conversely, I've lost all interest. My eyes went black and I shut her out. I'm sorry. This is a heart crime. Should I propose celibacy? No, I would only be lying to myself. Celibacy until I develop an emotional connection? Maybe. From now on, I'm going to love you before I fuck you  let you stay the night. Feed me pixie dust and stars. Peter pan and tinker bell. In the meantime, I have to figure out how to handle this situation. I never want to be here, at this time, doing this all too familiar dance.

1. Today, against my better judgment, I sat down and made a list of all the women I've seen over the past few weeks. I have to admit that when I finally totaled the numbers, I was surprised. This, meaning dating,  all started out quite innocently. I was pining to get out, enjoy some decent conversation, you know, experience the sweet tingle between my thighs every once in awhile. What ensued was maddening, quite often. Fun, sometimes. Disappointing, always. I was, and still am not looking for another relationship; however, is it too much to ask for a woman with intrigue, edge, color girl sophistication, worldly intellect, Frida Kahlo artsy tendencies? (p.s.  three of more of the above-mentioned qualities, in the right combination, is perfectly acceptable) I feel like Goldilocks. Oh, poor Goldilocks, I never understood your sizable dilemma before this upset. I'm not climbing from bed to bed, but from mediocre restaurant to mediocre restaurant, uncomfortable conversation to eve

Life chases like the wind.  In two weeks,  I walked away--for good, leased a beautiful new apartment in Philadelphia, moved, unpacked, and woke up alone.  Yes, I am alone--emotionally and mentally lucid.  These arms, this spine, these thighs...oh...I am so open. I've really missed Philadelphia. I'm infatuated with Philly's smelly streets, colorful murals, and tiny byobs. I am falling in love again. I have a gorgeous apartment and a deck with an unobstructed view of the Philadelphia sky line. I don't know where this will end. I am not going in circles anymore, and that feels damn good. I'm coming back in to myself again. A homecoming.