To All The Girls I Never Loved Before

I suppose I could blame it on my youth or ignorance.

I could tell you about the fear; how I allowed it to paralyze me into denial.


But you were right there in the middle of it, weren't you? 

By my side, in my thoughts, tip-toeing around my heart

Hoping to salvage the bridge I was always ready to ignite.


Yet with each kiss and hand snaked around my waist, I still winced at the first flutter of butterflies.

Dancing. Teasing. Announcing our shared joy.


You were a gift, wrapped so beautifully. You came to me, your energy was like
that first inhale after reaching a mountain top.


I wasn't ready. 

For the wave, the transfer, for the thunder. For you.

I'm sorry.

For trying to repave our paths. We both deserved freedom over fright.
But authenticity can feel like fragility.

So I thought I was being strong when I walked away.

We could have run. Together.
You had wings agile enough for both of us.

I regret. 

I pray the next moment in time is not stifled by flashbacks.
I hope I recognize community in a lover, or three. 

Love is.

 I am. 

Abundance, in motion.


The strength, the protection, the faith, is in we.


Maybe the universe will offer one more chance,

and you will be within reach again.

And if not, 

Please promise that our memory will forever be suspended in bliss. 

Weightless

Comet's Gaze

I won't say I'm sorry for loving you. 

When we were both ablaze.

Unquenchable. 

I won't apologize or hang my head in shame at the reminder of our tenderness.

I am not contrite. 

I am not remorseful.

I do not repent.

For wishing I could hold your laughter in my chest, again. 

And again. 

And again. 

My affection dazzles.

 Enraptures.

 Seduces.

And you are still my star. Metaphysical yet radiant.

Even four light years away I still see you; 

Winking at me in remembrance.

No Place Like Home

Sometimes I don’t  know where or what home is. Is it 1809 N. Madison Junction City KS?

Is it 1010 Burke Drive? Or does it lie in the arms of my first love; bare and unfurnished because the welcome mat is indented with the remains of my heart stomped out by his rejection? And what does home smell like? Is it the pine-sol/bleach mix Aunt Diane used to mop her kitchen floor at least four times a week? Or the aroma of fried catfish nuggets and grits Dad made every Saturday morning while Adventures in Odyssey crackled over the airwaves of Angel 95?

Maybe it smells like Mema: a cloud of white diamonds and homemade cookies. Those definitely tasted like home. But sometimes home tastes like prune juice,because it was the home remedy for childhood constipation. Or maybe home tastes like tears and sweat and olive oil dripping from the hands of preachers. Hands pressed into foreheads and temples with faith that was supposed to make depression disappear. And then home sounds like Mama and Daddy’s prayers when the sun has either not yet risen or laid to rest a long time ago.

Home sounds like the slinging of belt loops for sneaking and kissing your boyfriend at seventeen years old. Home sounds like youth choir practice, right at the moment the altos, sopranos, and tenors blend in perfect harmony and the pastor’s sons bring it all together with keyboard strokes and drumsticks. Home sounds like preacher’s call to the altar for repentance and the clink of coins in offering bags. Home is the creak of rusted swing set chains and little girls taunting your tiny body and over sized chest.

Home is Daddy staying up way past his bedtime to help with your 4-H project so you’ll secure that long-coveted purple ribbon. Home is late night mother-daughter talks at Denny’s over coffee and chicken fingers covered with ranch dressing. Home is Sunday-School bus ministry, Sunday worship service, Sunday evening service, Tuesday night youth service, Thursday night Bible study, choir practice, youth prayer, and clean-up on between nights. Home is weekend outreach, out of town conferences, church camp and spending kindergarten through high-school in Apostolic Academy yet never feeling smart enough.

Home is curling up in a corner in your bedroom with “ Keep on Trusting God” by Deitrick Haddon on repeat while the tears flow uncontrollably and you beg for a sign, an answer, something anything that makes home feel like a place where you are wanted, where you matter..., where you belong. Home is hiding a bottle of Tylenol, Aleve, and Motrin just in case one or the other is not enough to make the inward pain stop. Permanently.  

Home is getting therapy on the pastor’s couch while he tells you that you are valuable only to preach in the pulpit the next night that anyone who contemplates suicide is weak-minded and incredibly selfish. Home is choosing your outfit for Sunday service and while using a safety-pin to keep up your neckline your hand trembles, tears fall, and you watch as it tumbles down the bathroom sink drain.

Home is studying the Proverbs 31 woman and your pastor’s wife in a desperate attempt to make yourself desire marriage and children and a lack of opinion. Home is getting a job and going to college and realizing that maybe all of your questions are not that scary. Home is trying to have a conversation about the role of women in the church and being told you are going against the Bible and this is why women should not be in college.

Home is never speaking about your attraction to the same sex in addition to rare mention of your attraction to the opposite because you watch your friends get ostracized and shunned by their own families because of who they love. Home is trying to find worthiness on annual work days scrubbing the burgundy fuzz of church pews and polishing the tithe box. Home is volunteering to baby-sit, cook, clean, and help the elderly with grocery shopping, writing for the church newsletter, playing the piano, running the aisles, conducting bible-studies, speaking in youth service, and going on three day fasts without telling anyone about it.

Home is realizing that holding in all of your desires, and pretending you are ok with a future where you barely exist may kill the deepest part of you.

Home is where the heart is.

Home I have found does not sit in a person, or a place or even a lone state of being. Home isn’t anywhere. Home is everywhere. Home is in the stacks upon stacks of books that cover all the corners of your room because they have made better friends than people ever did. Home is realizing that all of your quirky behaviors actually shine and overshadow the cutting words that once made you feel exposed and weak. Home is holding friends in your arms and letting them weep into your shoulder because you know that spot is the hallway to rest.

Home is calling your sister when you feel yourself slipping and knowing she will steady your feet because she has been there with you every step of the way.

Home is learning that it is not something you find or create alone. Home is a collaboration, a symphony of high notes and baritones. Home is a cluster. Bedrooms of memories, kitchens if simmering emotions, and backyards of timely experiences. Home is a constant evolution of transformation.

Just like us. The center of it.

Writing Right

When I was in my late teens I wrote a short story for my church newsletter. The title of the story was “Unstable.” It followed a young woman dealing with the struggles of being tempted and navigating her social space in the church as well as wanting to experience life yet wanting to “live for God” aka follow the rules of the church to the letter. Melanie, the protagonist was based on me, and I pulled characterization from my imagination and loose representations of people in my youth group. I remember that the story was released in segments because the newsletter could only be kept to a limited page amount.

When each bit was released, my friends and those a few years younger came rushing to me begging for a preview of the next segment. People tried to guess who I based characters off of and wanted to know if I would turn it into an audio series. “ I want to be Dawson,” someone stated. “ I’ll be Melanie” another person chimed in. I remember thinking “ this is what it feels like to be an actual writer.” I had so many ideas, I wanted to write a collection of stories based on the varying perspectives of the characters in Unstable. I wanted to put them in graphic novel form.

I wanted to create a youth magazine highlighting a specific young person with an in depth interview and a Q&A section about topics that were hard to discuss in the mediums with which we were provided etc.

I would rush through homework assignments so I could work on ideas and create possible storylines. I found myself however taking pains to create stories that felt “safe.” I wanted desperately to write about sex and spirituality outside of the confines of Biblical ideology and desire beyond church teachings. However I knew that “Unstable” was as “edgy” as I could get.

I wrote secret stories and ripped them up because I knew once the Pastor read them, I would be reprimanded or even thrown out of the church.  In a bittersweet unexpected turn of events, the pastor informed me I was not allowed to distribute anything outside of what was submitted to the newsletter. Shortly after the final installment of “Unstable” was published, the newsletter was discontinued altogether. I remember the desire I had to write consuming me and I convinced myself I should give up any notion to write about taboo topics. So I wrote songs and poems and stories about God that I shared with friends and family. I also wrote dark stories, and love songs and poetry about depression that I kept hidden and eventually threw out.

Fast forward about six years or so later when I left the church, one of my first thoughts was “ I can finally write without fear, I can write my stories without a filter.” Yet I did not really realize that over twenty years of mental conditioning would have such an elongated visceral effect on my  creative psyche. Much of the material that inspires my writing is rooted in the experience of having been raised in an extremely strict environment that also was my community, and for a time, a place I willingly participated in and wanted desperately to be embraced by.

The complexities of these intersections has been my excuse to not go deep and reveal the effects they present. I have once again recreated and repackaged that familiar fear.  Recently I reflected on several black women who are creating art in their various avenues who have a similar background to mine. Ava Duvernay went to a catholic school from elementary school until high school graduation, Michaela Coel attended a Pentecostal church for four years and Angel Haze was raised in one. All of these women have discussed how these experiences have shaped the way they create their art. It is not a source which should be shunned or rejected. I have pages both physical and those in my mind displaying these experiences and those I have had which would have made the young girl who wrote Unstable blush ( or she might have been proud) due to the brashness of their content.

These stories breathe heartbeats. So I will share them, even though they are uncomfortable and some are taboo, but life is all of that and more.

A Haiku Sonnet

Graveyard

Broken headstones near
Disintegrating body
 parts: Eyes, tongues, earlobes.

Index fingertip,
A half crumbled shoulder blade
My former lovers,

Appendages lay
Scattered about, forgotten.
I still smell each one,

Taste the flavor of
Disappointment resting on-
 My inner elbow.

Sounds of pulsating heartbeats
Shake earth. Create catacombs

Atmospheric Phenomena

I didn't ask for much.


I just wanted to be held,


Close


Hearts beating in sync, fingers interlocked, ear pressed to shoulder


Just for a little while.


 Words spoken without a disclaimer or conditional clause its what they call


Transparency.


When we were together I felt just comfortable enough to strip,

layer upon layer away until I was almost bare.


Vulnerable and naked even while wearing my favorite sweatpants and a t-shirt that smelled just like you.


Your palpitating energy, pulsating into mine,

 A blinding, explosive, eternal flame which refused to be snuffed out.


We were stars.


Colliding,


Falling through galaxies. Transcending time and space.


The descent was unstoppable.


Spinning, and whirling out of control


All balance lost


We crashed.


 The smooth curves of my surface transformed into jagged edges.


Daggers of self-preservation


And I shattered the planet that one day might have been called


Us.