The Family Shame

It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to blame.

You were so helpless, and what a shame.

He invaded your body, created a wound,

took your innocence from you much too soon.

No one held your hand and said, “it would be okay,”

they sent you back in with him, told you to “go play.”

So deep inside hid the family secret,

and the little girl they expected to keep it,

but you could not stay silent,

you lashed out, became defiant.

You kicked, screamed, and cut yourself.

You had been benched, your feelings on a shelf.

Then they turned on you, because you embarrassed them so.

You told the secrets no one was supposed to know.

They pointed their fingers, but you weren’t to blame.

You were only a child living in pain.

The scapegoat you were. The black sheep you’ve been,

and in sight there seemed to be no end.

 You’ve carried the burden upon your shoulders,

and prayed things would get better when you’re older.

The pain continued, tears often shed,

and may times you wished yourself dead,

but you stood tall, as tall as can be.

Now no one will ever again bring you to your knees.

My Costume

Inspired by the book Outlaw written by Ted Dekker

The flesh I wear, my dirt brown skin,

weak muscles glazed in fat,

bones and joints, red cells, white cells,

nerves running long and deep

it needs, it wants.

It needs water to survive.

It wants poison in a shot glass,

ping pong balls in red, plastic cups

colorful drinks, umbrella decorations,

with salt on the rim.

It needs air to breathe.

It wants Marlboro Menthols

to take the edge off, grass in a pipe

to get in the mood, herbs baked in

chocolate cupcakes so it can relax.

It needs love and affection.

It wants to hook-up

in the back of a Nissan,

to feel warmth, another body

one with it’s own, lips and tongues,

sweat and blood, still it’s not enough.

It wants more. More flesh, more blood,

more skin.

The 5 Stages of Grief Song Cycle

Song Cycle Recording (Click link to listen)

Please enjoy the genius composition of good my friend Stephen Ryan Jackson, and the fantastic piano accompaniment of Mrs. Abigail Payne Sanders. This song cycle is for anyone who has ever loved and lost; and to the ones who left us broken hearted, life goes on.

The Five Stages of Grief (Acceptance)

I may have loved him without knowing

He had eyes like whisky,

I dared to swim in them,

to drink from his gaze.

I may have loved him without knowing.

He had skin like the earth,

skin like mine, but not like mine,

the Indian guy and the black girl,

the Asian and the African.

I may have loved him without knowing.

I was blinded by kisses and caresses,

hands that uncovered every inch,

fingers, arms, and legs entwined.

I may have loved him without knowing.

I refused to say the words,

to speak without thinking,

refused to give him my heart.

Still, I may have loved him without knowing.

Even when he stopped calling,

stopped coming around,

I remembered the warmth of his body,

his breath on my face.

Now he’s gone and I knew he would be.

I may have loved him without knowing.

The Five Stages of Grief (Bargaining)

Anything 

You were right to leave,

right to call a quits. I wasn’t

good enough; wasn’t good for us,

but I could change.

If you come back things would be

different.

I could lose the weight.

No more love handles,

no more chubby girl.

I could do it for you,

be the woman you want me to be.

I could grow my hair long.

You loved to run your fingers

through my hair, but there was

never enough,

I was never enough.

I could leave my job,

make more time for you,

more time for us.

Give you all of me for as

long as you want.

If you would just come back,

I could be the lover you want.

I’d learn to please you,

make you yearn for me, salivate

at the very thought of me.

I would do that for you.

I would do anything for you,

anything.

The Five Stages of Grief (Depression)

Nothing to You

Tossed away, 
used, 
abused,
consumed like last night’s dinner,

gobbled up quick.

Chunks of heart, spirit, and soul swallowed up,

down your gullet, washed down by Guinness and Shiner,

broken down in the intestines of the monster I gave it all to,

only to be excreted in nearest men’s room.

Waste is what I am to you,

leftovers in the sink diminished, demolished,

destroyed by the garbage disposal.

The roar of the machine as it shreds the very

last of me. Deafening. Fatal. Finished.

I am not even a thought.

There is nothing left.

I am nothing to you. 

The Five Stages of Grief (Anger)

If I could take back every kiss,

 touch and embrace I would.

If I could I would package them up,

send them far, far way.

Maybe it would be better to burn them up,

every memory of you and me in flames,

flush the ashes down the toilet,

send them to the sewer from whence you came.

If only I could forget every word that ever came

out of your mouth, the lies, the shit, the promises,

sweet nothings turned sour like milk.

Damn you and every moment we spent together,

you ugly, lying, gutless bastard.

I won’t miss any of it. I won’t miss you.

I never loved you, in fact I hate you.

I hate you!

Who do you think you are

walking out on me?

How dare you leave after you said

you loved me.

How could you look me in the eyes and lie? 

The Five Stages of Grief (Denial)

When he comes back…

He said he needed some time, needed some space,

but when he comes back things will change.

When he comes back we’ll be okay.

He said he loved me, looked me in my eyes and

swore he loved me. I couldn’t say the words,

couldn’t say them then,

but when he comes back things will change.

When he comes back I’ll love him over and over again. 

He said he lost his job, that he wasn’t in a good place,

wasn’t in the right frame of mind,

but I’ll keep praying for him, and he’ll get better,

so when he comes back things will change.

When he comes back he’ll be happy again.

When he comes back we’ll be happy again.

The Remedy

The remedy was in a bag of Spicy Doritos,
a liter of Mountain Dew, and a large pepperoni pizza.
Another break-up, another ten pounds.
Another ten pounds, another ten minutes over the toilet,
my finger down my throat.
The remedy was in hours of sitcoms and romantic comedies,
action thrillers and horror flicks.
The remedy was in tears that soaked my face, pillows, and blankets.
Tears that dried up, leaving my face a salty, crusty mess.
The remedy was in sleep, long naps, an early bedtime
where I could black out and forget, or remember
you once wanted me just as much as I wanted you.
I had hoped you would love me again but you didn't.
I found the remedy in a bottle of Southern Comfort.
It bit my lips like you used to bite and warmed my body
like Campbell's on a cold winter night.

Out For Dinner

I smell spicy meat, hear it sizzle as a server walks by.
The place is glowing with green and red string lights,
tinsel wrapped around every chandelier, mistletoe
dangling from the flat screen near the bar.
We sit at a booth across from each other. My side rocks,
and wiggles each time the person behind me moves.
A baby girl eating with her family smiles at me, a mouth
full of rice and beans. She waves, I wave back.
Our food arrives, pork tacos for me and a beast-like
steak dinner for him.
My tacos taste like barbecue pig, they're wet with
sauce and grease. I lick off my finger tips and
the corners of my mouth.
Our server walks by, half empty glasses of water, dirty plates,
and used napkins on a tray, on the tray at first.
From the tray to the floor falls the dirty plates. From the tray to my lap
falls the half empty glasses. From the tray to my plate
falls the used napkins. Bon appetite!




This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Stephen Ryan Jackson. Thank you for encouraging and supporting both of my arts. Would do this night again with you anytime Tuna!

Shot Down

A pigeon shot out of the sky, arrow penetrating
breast, plummeting to the ground, no wind to carry wings,
the thud, crack of body and bone to pavement.
Falling for you, hitting rock bottom in a head first
dive. I'm bleeding out for the world to see. Holding
on only to die another day, to fall for you again, and again.

I will heal, wear my scars on my sleeve. Let days,
weeks, a year pass before taking flight. Praying
for a breeze to catch my wings, give me life,
for the sails on my ship to inflate, a baby's first breath.
I'm hoping to float on waves that splish and splash,
to find treasure at sea.

Still the answer is no. The answer is always no.
I'm falling again. No, sinking, being dragged down
by murky waters that crash and crash. Fighting against
waves that push and pull, slipping into the darkness,
Davy Jones' locker. This time I won't get up, I refuse to
heal, to come up for air, to remove the arrow from my breast.

More

More

I know how you see me, but I’m so much more.

I’m more than just a midnight score, 

more than your mid-week booty call.

I’m more than just my smooth, brown skin; 

more than my thick thighs.

I’m more than my wide ass, 

more than my triple D breasts.

I’m more than my big lips, and dark eyes.

I’m more than good pussy, and you ought to know it.

You ought to know I’m a lover, with every fiber of my being.

I’m a crooner, my voice like the richest and darkest of chocolates.

I’m a fighter, blocking and countering each blow.

I’m nobody’s victim. I’m nobody’s bitch.

I’m my own superhero, and I’ve got wings.

Do you see it now? Do you see me?

I’m more than you could ever imagine.

So now I’ll demand more too; 

more of me and more of you.

I'm Black

I'm black, but sometimes I forget.
People always remind.
They call me black, but my skin is brown.
My dad is light, my mother dark.
We are all black.

My teachers say African American.
They smile, furrow their brows.
My dad says Congolese American,
his lips tight, his eyes narrow.

Professors try to pronounce my name,
heads turning to locate this person.
I tell them, "people call me Rita."
They ask where I am from.
Fort Worth. They ask
how to say my real name,
why don't I use it.
I would blush if I could.

I'm black and a singer,
a dramatic mezzo voice type--
my role, supporting actress.
"You should sing more Negro Spirituals."
I shift my weight from one leg to the other.
I smile and nod. "Spirituals would be perfect
for your voice. You could be another
Jessye Norman."

Ariel and Rita, the two black girls,
the two black singers. Ariel has long,
curly hair. She stands at five feet and 
eight inches. She is a dramatic soprano,
the lead actress. I am not Ariel.
My hair does not come past my ears.
I am barely five feet, five inches.
In a scene from Into the Woods,
we are the two evil stepsisters. 
Slow nods sweep across the hall.
"No, they are not the same girl."

I'm black. That will never change.
I should try harder not to forget,
but if I do, you will remind me.

Child's Play

To be mesmerized by the gaze of a man,

to day dream about a first kiss is child’s play.

To pick out color schemes, dresses, cakes, and

flowers for a wedding long before the engagement,

hold hands and steal kisses in a dark theater,

 profess love after a month or two,  receive

teddy bears, chocolates in a heart shaped box,

 long stem roses. Open doors, pulled out chairs,

chivalry for the sake of love, a bogus fantasy

carved into the minds of little girls by Disney

princes. Joanie and Chachi sittin’ in a tree

k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Pillows tucked under shirts, baby

 dolls in plastic cribs. Girl names: Mary, Maggie,

Marley. Boy names: Matthew, Michael, Martin.

One big, happy family, together forever. White

picket fences, a golden retriever, two-door garage,

 a two-story home in the cul-de-sac of modern-day suburbia.

 Grow up, there is only your cramped apartment, your

 three roommates and their on-again-off-again relationships.

 No boyfriend, no fiancé, no husband, no prince charming.

You aren’t Cinderella, beautiful, enchanting, princess bride.

You’re an ugly step-sister, a hopeless maid chasing after dreams,

fairytales, child’s play.  

A Better Life

A Better Life

The hum of my dated laptop

drowns out the chatter of my roommates

in the living room. My face glows with the

light from the screen, my bedroom still.

I read the name on the screen.

Desmond Makoma. Desmond Makoma.

 

“Desmond Makoma likes a picture you

were tagged in.”

 

Click.

His timeline appears, his face

in the left hand corner. He stands

in a grey suit, legs apart, hands clasped together

below his waist, like a night club bouncer.

 

His face is bigger than it was four years ago.

There are more lines now, on his

forehead, around his mouth.

He must have switched to contacts.

Pastor Desmond Makoma. Cousin Desmond.

Traitor.

 

I close my eyes, remembering years of anti-depressants,

counseling, and bloody razors. My fingers trace

the scar on my left arm, my old life.

I open my eyes. Click.

“Desmond Makoma is now blocked from

this page.” This life is better.