Me, Undone

I can think myself out of a paper bag, tied tight and locked in a spinning chair above the sea. I think. I ponder. I rationalize. I conceptualize. I rethink. My heart and mind are distant cousins. They make battle across my bones. I coax mind, follow heart. Mind replies, “ I must think about it.” This is where you come in. Stand guard for me. Watch for the moment. The sweet seconds of opportunity when I escape for light. Grab me. Shake me. Rock me back down. Wrap your arms around me strong. Don’t let me go. Whisper into my ear and stroke the wool hair on my head. And Wait.

I carry this image of you resting there naked. It is dark. I can barely see the lines of you pulled together. I sketch the rise and fall of your chest and match my breathing to yours. I like you like this, I say. Un-guarded. Un-tongued with open ribcage and arms by your side. You are enough. There is always morning, though. And as the sun ascends, I see now, shell and bone forming again, moving swiftly from the tips of your toes up your shoulder blade. In moments, you will be apart from me. In the full light of day, I am lost. I can only guess at who you are. I stumble around with my heart in my hands. Afraid. Yes, always afraid, that under the sheer weight of my ignorance, my blindness--you, I, we, will collapse before night can come again. Godspeed.

It's been quite a long time since I've posted. If any one is ever still out there, my apologies. I looked into the mirror today and wept for my spirit. I am sorry for abandoning you for so long. I moved to Chicago a month ago. I quit my job. Left my family, friends, and lovers. Loaded all my belongings into a four door sedan, tossed everything that did not fit, and drove 14 hours toward the windy city. I am full of so many hopes. Hope of a fresh start. Hope of blossoming love. Hope of sweet success. Novelty. But novelty, I know, is like cheap fabric. It wears. And I have to admit that I am scared, realizing that I have no back-up plan. No hidden map. No exit strategy. Life could eat me alive.

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.