The body is just the vessel to pleasure but the mind never lays anything to waste. For too long I had taken to the task of being a self mutilator. I don’t boast any scars because they are too buried for the eye to survey.
The bloodless assault of unwarranted punishment can leave you bare and ready for the next attack.
Enough is enough.
Tomorrow could be my last or it could be the beginning of an unrestricted love fest.
The yellow of the eggs bleeding all over the plate only enhance the vibrant green peeking underneath it. At this moment I could be a chef in the making who documents her meals with earnest and captions how following her dreams can honestly fill you with the joy that clicks must conceive.
Instead, I sit and make love to my morning fuel. It feels so good sliding down my throat. It cost a lot too. Jobless and losing funds like a hemorrhage that can’t be clipped— it feels orgasmic to be able to own the unknown while enjoying the depleting fruits of my labor.
Love. How do I make it happen? How do I make love to you and me and everything around us.
I look at the way my hair curls after a really hot shower. The gentle wrinkles that creep around the softness of my eyes make me smile. The red and gray that give my temples an intersection of what should be and what will be also hold the smile a little longer.
This love is for real.
Stepping out into the light of the day in a city that is over-showered with the blinding sunlight — I walk with a casual pace as the cars zoom by with ardent ferocity. Nobody walks here but I love to walk. I love the way my legs carry me with airy familiarity and the labor never goes unnoticed.
Love can be reassuringly superficial. It can also be the hardest way to stay alive.
It’s so easy to give up. To rearrange all the reasons why you can’t adhere to the standards of our humanity. We hate because it feels good to prove why I am so much better than you. I can hate you enough to hate myself more by depriving us all from the basics of life. I can examine the tools of expression and manipulate them in ways that coerce your senses enough to make you hate yourself beyond recognition. I am better than you. The numbers don’t lie. Evidently more people care about my existence while you pace back and forth with your finger — trying to decide whether or not to make me come.
I make love so good that I return to myself for more and I am willing to share the offerings if you let me.
I love the Trump voters. I love them because they need it so badly and I am ready and willing to give it. I love the idiots who spew out smelly gas on Twitter and wait to be baited. They are suffocating in hate and disarray and the war of words that infect timelines don’t provide advancement. They only mandate the next battle waiting in line.
I love the women who were my enemies back in the day and the ones who kind of remain in that space. I made mistakes out of desperation and misguidedness but the love was always there. When I was young and hungry — some of you were armed enough to assist and mentor but it was different back then. Now, it is trendy to be the black woman with all the answers and the ability to command a packed room and fill it up with words of wisdom. Now, we know how to be almost as awesome as you.
And I love that. It’s a little above my pay grade but I love it still.
We do the best we can and the beauty is that being human translates into being able to wine and dine your misery until you can’t stand your own stench. And then you take a nice long bath, listen to you favorite tunes, drink a glass of expensive wine, and wait to be made loved to.
The loving never gets old. I enjoy the ride and the sweat. It’s cathartic and necessary. I love the uncle who made me feel guilty about that thing and I love the other uncle who used me to relieve himself. I love the opportunities that came and went without residue.
I love today less than tomorrow.
This is how I make crazy good love.