All my writing has moved to this blog:
I am beginning to pick things up with both hands no matter how it pains the weak parts of my fingers.
I feel as though if I don’t something will break,
and I don’t seek the sound.
Yesterday I took the time out to analyze my own racial progress, the thoughts that my subconscious hides from me, and the work (or lack thereof) that I am doing towards attaining a homogenous appreciation for man.
As I reflect today I realize that I have levels of discrimination against all groups, including my own. As a reaching hand I would like to propose that perhaps we all have a lot of work to do concerning our love for mankind, accepting the notion that we could all serve a purpose, and basing our existence on something more than the comparison of differences.
Maintaining a new age of discussion and thought towards what we need from each other with the understanding that we are all going through the same experience of managing a life which we did not request could do wonders for us.
A plate has broken in my home,
And I worry first that it does not puncture my feet.
Aw, you’re sweet. Thank you- glad I inspired you. Love seeing other work, feel free to share
I always used to wonder whether I took showers properly. Unlike bathes or brushing my teeth it wasn’t something that I had been eased into doing alone. I had seen it being done in scary films and bad “vacation in sunny state” porn that came on too early for late night television. The kind of programming that I knew I was too young to fully watch and made sure to always keep one eye closed.
Puberty had made itself present in more ways than one.
Mrs. Hines was my health teacher in the fifth grade. She had three daughters that she always talked about affectionately during class which made all of us feel rather awkward. Generally, we used up most of our thoughts trying to figure out how much saliva to incorporate into our after-school kiss. Integrating that with the sound of Mrs. Fat-face-Hines’ sentiments about her sweet daughters made it all feel wrong.
” Some of you will get your periods this year and others of you might be waiting until high school, there is nothing wrong with you either way. We all mature at different ages”, Mrs. Fat-face-Hines said to the girls. This was the worst thing she had ever said. I was sure that she had cursed us all, although I knew that my time had already come. Even so, it felt good having someone to blame for the horrors that I now had to face during this “indoors rain experience”. There were no more bubbles or mermaid impersonations left for me. Showers were serious business for serious girls who had seriously grown.
I didn’t know which way to face. Standing before the shooting water jet felt too intrusive for both the water and for me. I felt like we had rushed our intimacy and quickly apologized turning my back towards it. I wondered whether I was supposed to stand under the water until the whole thing was finished like how it had been in bathes. I stepped backwards until I felt these tiny gentle massages fall both off and onto my body. I began to think that maybe the water could kiss in this new form and slowly pulled my head back. Suddenly the water was shooting off the plane of my nose and laying against the curve of my upper lip, spreading between the opening of my mouth and running down my chin the same way milk spills when it isn’t drank properly.
When I had taken multiple minutes of the water’s time it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t enjoying it the same way that I was and pulled away to face it again. There I saw the vent that was slightly above my shower head. I had no doubt in my mind that my creepy neighbor in apartment 3D who was nothing more than bones and a tooth was watching me. As small gusts of air fell through the panels I said, ” Mr. Harris, please stop. You’re scaring me”. I reached out my hands to the water for support and splashed it all over my body which was the closest I could get to a hug. Perhaps I should just sit down, I thought. This will prevent Mr. Harris from seeing all my bits.
The water started creating a small puddle between my knees and my chest that I could dip my shower-gel-covered-loofa and scrub my toes the same way that I could my arms.
This was the way that I would shower for a straight week. 
I love you in a way that lets me know,
I have time enough to be without you.
In a lot of ways I feel as though I am reverting to my first understanding of women, they are my teachers.
I ask them to continue leading and guiding me towards the path that will make me a carrier of creation.
A person that loves with a tongue persistent enough to make another know the feeling but protects herself with that same voice which has already resounded past its foreseen destination.
Freedom is to be of me what has been granted,
by failure of doubt,
I am here.
My back curves like an open letter,
that is being lit on fire in the thrust of night.