denial as a blanket. my armor. a little nook. cozy and accommodating. a sanctuary. my warm gun. i love the way it’s starting to feel around here.
deeper, decided breaths. waiting, but deliberately resisting the longing for understanding. it’s “fine”.
digging a hole in the yard deep enough to contain the echoes of my wailing heart. not to suffocate or kill it, just so i wouldn’t hear it underneath the floor boards in my sleep.
in this place. down here in hell, without you. sleep isn’t peaceful. i expect to see you in my dreams, but i don’t have to like it.
it’s really whatever. whatever i have to do to keep my head above the tide. making things for and about you, just to get me by. to pass the time. whatever. life isn’t always kind.
and that’s fine.
your name appears on my screen.
chunky peanut butter throat. stomach doing backhand springs. the kind of deafening blank in your ears due atmospheric pressure changes on a plane. numb, sweaty hands. heart doing the pregentrified Harlem shake.
i think i’m steadily, gracefully easing into letting go of my attachment to things and learning to share them with the world. i’m not an only child. i don’t have issues sharing. i’d lost just about everything in a fire at the start of my saturn return. still, i have this thing about ownership. some things i just want for me.
the attachments are so strange.
on one hand there are the Beautiful Whatevers i’ve had for years. effortlessly transformed into impromptu gifts for admirers who love them. things on my body i’d just give if someone expressed interest. just to see them light up.
then there are the others.
like the prototype. something i made shortly after getting on my knees and pregging (a desperate combination of praying+begging). i tried to bargain with God. swore if i did a something familiar & ritualistic i could be closer to you.
i bossed up and sold it. no duplicates. i could easily make another but why would i do that?
i’d taken pride in making all these little things for you. a bouquet of deliberate blues & pastel greens to complement the greys in your condo. i waited for the appropriate occasion to box and send, but it makes way more sense to hold onto.
Instead of my usual route I’m gonna take a detour. Let’s just see where the road less taken gets me. Since it’s fuck the rules, right?
I’m gonna entertain the idea that i’m simply too much for you niggas. and also that *you* were not good enough.
People seek you out for being this (according to them) enigmatic, otherworldly being. The minute your humanity makes an appearance niggas start malfunctioning. The very moment you need something. I know we’re not *supposed to* be needy, but if i can’t be needy with you every once in a while, why the fuck are you here?
Oh fuck. i forgot I have to be this golden, shiny, perfectly put together ass bitch every minute of my fucking life.
You realize they never wanted you. They want the facade. The fantasy. The pretty parts. You realize they never knew you, and never had the capacity to. Bitch, you need a well! These niggas don’t have the depth of a fucking teaspoon.
So now you’re no longer the woman with universes inside her. You’re just this insignificant thing. The ornamental dumpster.
They wanna play with you incessantly for weeks. Undress you. Scatter your belongings. Fuck your hair up and pull you apart limb by limb. Leave you in the corner somewhere on the floor ‘cause fuck a shelf. Fuck a place to belong. Your shit already broken, so you don’t deserve the same reverence or care you did when you were shiny and untouched.
There’s a history of LACK and ineptitude from *your* kind. That’s just fucking facts. I’ve managed to not only shoulder your transferred burden of inadequacy, but also internalized it. Wore it like i bought it when really you left your shit here and i never got rid of it.
2.5 weeks ago i started to give up and give in again. I told Ronnie i was afraid of the next 6 months bc i knew the previous 6 felt like i had been handled. i’d taken a beating and the wounds were never properly dressed. Bruises & welts lived just beneath my skin. if you looked at me real good you could probably see them. I told him the truth because it felt like the responsible thing to do. I was only certain that something like this could very well end me because October already tried to.
For most of September i **pretended** everything was ok. I spent a decent amount of money on new crafts for a project this pain birthed. I was breaking but oddly, foolishly proud of my ability to perform through my turmoil for that 1st month.
I had an idea that i became obsessed with seeing through to completion. My sanity depended on it. I was out shopping for red this’s and that’s with bags half as tall as me.
Walking toward chipotle in the parking lot, i saw an Asian woman crossing the walkway toward me. Perfectly chiseled bowl haircut. Monochromatic red from head to toe. Red dress and jacket. Red brooch, red shoes. Sharp. As. Fuck. I instantly registered what i was looking at.
I was verklempt. By the time the wind forcefully tossed her hair about I had already come to a thorough halt.
Her existence affirmed what i purposefully set out to do on that day. I was building a red floral wall piece. I planned on working my way through the rest of the colors that correspond with the 7 chakras once my red project was complete.
So on this day I just knew God had kissed my forehead. Gave me a wink and a nudge. Had been watching me, observing my moves. Making sure i understood that i was cherished. Important. Loved. Embraced.
So i stood there in the middle of the parking lot and wept with my bags half as tall as me.
I haven’t done this in so long lol. Wait I’m lying. I tried to have a fashion blog for 2 seconds but i guess that don’t count 💀. Shout out to all my OG bloggers. Livejournal/blogspot/Wordpress days. Look at us having a full circle moment 😂.
I feel like it’s too soon to start going into my feelings about my surroundings. I’m still processing. In the meantime I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing. This art shit. I’ll figure out how to share my process.