Me, Undone

We often mask true commitment in archaic notions of sex and sexuality. We sit in judgment of those who rest outside of the confines of societal constructions of monogamy, all the while ignoring the husbands, wives, and lovers starved of attention in traditional pairings—those who play house like dolls with vapid interactions. They give their bodies but hide their souls. Rationing joy, withholding common courtesies—warm smiles, small compliments, a listening ear. Herein lies the deceit... The measure of my love is not in the span of my hips. My folds do not confer fidelity. And you, you my love, are not a commodity to be manipulated in an effort to garner attention, love, and affection. I do not wish to control you. I do not want to own you or your safe spaces. I do not need to possess you to love you. Just spare me your warmth, your kindness—the stroke of your hand for a while. And allow me this—the freedom to travel the far away places of your mind, of your heart. I promise t...

I am in love with the feminine--drawn to feminine energy in all its subtle variations. My first experience in the feminine was at the age of seven—the year Sylvester died. Tasha and I held hands in alleyways after school. On weekends I begged my mom to let Tasha stay the night— precious moments created as we stole furtive kisses under strawberry shortcake sheets. She was soft like towels fresh from the dryer; her skin smelt of apple butter. In the middle of a gang of mangy boys, Tasha was the one I gravitated to—if I knew I could, I would have grown up to marry her, and she would have had our child. As a woman, I find myself intrigued by the likeness of transgendered women and drag queens. The sweet vulnerability—the suppleness of unfulfilled wants and dreams. I understand the need to feel and experience WO-MAN, very much like my own need to reach out and touch Tasha’s skin. Today, I’ve built myself a world of feminine. You can catch a glimpse of it when I walk by. It lingers at...

Bought my ticket to Bali and booked a villa for ten days in June. Scraping away the dead skin, dusting off my feet. Wanted: syrupy-sweet adventure.

I’ve caught glimpses of the “Six Word Memoir Bug” on Huff Post and other blogs. It is an invitation to tell your life story in six simple words. Since coming across the challenge, I’ve carried around six word sentences in the back of my mind. And then I came across a writer who wrote her life as a short story using 6 word sentences. It was simple—yet so profound. So skeleton thin, yet meaty and complete. In a stream of consciousness I crafted this... Stumbled out of college, into life Standing at the edge of uncertainty Man with warm hands touches me His love disarticulates—moves me completely Climbing out of me, into him I rest violently in the space I cannot see where I begin Loving with coils of trepidation I have a secret hiding here I cannot control what I am Months and years pass by slowly Lady in the sea surfaces again Lift her body from the ocean Step back, I realize she is me I am unhinged—open and exposed He bleeds, pricks me in bed I pay...

I’ve been haunted by dreams of children in my arms—the sensation of connection and overwhelming love stays with me, even as I wake. I assume it has something to do with the approaching anniversary of my mother’s death. She wanted so badly for me to have children. It was often the topic of our weekly conversations. She offered to come live me for the first year—I told her I wasn’t ready. I thought I had so much time. I’ve oscillated over having a baby since she died. Sometimes the urge to reproduce rises up to suffocate me—and other times I am acutely averse to the thought of giving up my freedom. I love crawling out of bed at 12:00 in the afternoon on lazy weekends. I love traveling to any given country at any given time. I love partying with fabulous boy queens until 4 in the morning. I’m sure that there are innumerable joys that come from parenting. But there is also an intense amount of fear. The fuller and purer the love--the deeper the sorrow. Many mothers have suffocated from...

I cried. If you can hear the sound of her voice, know this, we are not alone.

I can’t seem to shake my predilection for traveling. For weeks upon weeks I’ve been dreaming of Indonesia. I’ve fallen madly in love with the Bali--it's ornate temples and magenta (the one in the Crayola crayon box) flowers. My desire to travel to Bali did not come from reading Eat, Drink, and Pray . Although I found Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED Talk on creativity to be rather fascinating, I threw her book to the floor after the first chapter. Her exaggerated literary voice was so abrading—I almost broke out in hives. I may not fancy Gilbert, but alas, I am following in her steps. I guess I see myself in Gilbert--it is somewhat disturbing. Like me, she is a woman who does not know what she wants (despite her recent sequel). She, I, am a vagabond, a pseudo nomad—wandering around from job to job, degree program to degree program, marriage to marriage, country to country, bed to bed. I am the complicated for absolutely no good reason kind of woman—unsatisfied with life presented. I...