It’s late. I’ve spent about 3 hrs scrolling online. It’s almost three AM and I’ve been up since 11. I leave for work at six. This time I closed my eyes and thought about being held in his arms as he kissed me on my forehead. I closed my eyes and snuggled into his chest. As I imagined this, tears quietly rolled down the side of my face. this man was someone I knew but never saw but I could feel his love and passion radiate through me. The only certainty is that if I were to find myself wrapped in this someone’s arms, it would be for my benefit alone. I’d leave him eventually for a man I would want to marry. And it doesn’t work that way. The karma in a one-sided love affair hits hard. I’d be plagued with the idea of being a placeholder and inevitably ruin the prospect of a serious relationship. Until I can enjoy the quiet space & not occlude it with the past, I need to be alone. I don’t want my old lovers or my old friends. I want to feel new. I am in fact brand new.
My lips were numb and I could barely breathe. Whenever we kissed, I felt intoxicated. I wanted more. I needed more.
His kiss sucked the air directly from my lungs. When our lips parted ways, he bit down until tears welled in my eyes. His kiss felt like love so I bit him back. I was ready for love.
Then he’d trail his lips from my full bottom lip to my chin and from my chin to my neck. My pussy ached in a literal sense. My inner walls contracted and salivated.
His fingers danced to the meeting of my thighs and skipped around my clit. He kissed me again. Tiny bubbles filled my airway. My breaths would become shallow. My mind would race until I was dizzy.
This unmistakable lust had eluded me until this moment. A stolen moment.
A single stolen moment would become two and then three until each stolen moment was declared the last of its kind.
image credit: stefan kuhn
So I’m going to write everything until something makes sense. I read this tweet from someone that said something along the lines of “Pay attention to who comes to get you when you retreat inside of yourself.” There’s no one here.
3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams
Self conscious and self aware are not the same and I happened to become both at once. I recognized that I needed to work on myself to find inner peace. I’d spent the first five years of motherhood learning that despite knowing who you are as a woman, your identity changes when you become a mother. It’s now year six and I still don’t know who “she” is.
I am a woman first because being a woman allows me to feel human. The woman I imagine myself to be knows how to cope with the white noise. As a mom, I feel overwhelmed, lonely, neurotic. As a mom, I should have all the cures and answers my children ask of me but I feel as though I’m coming up short; with empty hands.
My old friend battles anxiety and depression. I was her crutch. Imagine using a broken crutch. When I saw that I needed to pull away to be repaired, I tried but was discarded in the process so fuck her.
I have a friend who is negative. The world is negative. Imagine listening to a broken record. Even a broken clock is right twice a day so I keep her bc she keeps me.
I had a friend who lived in an old shoe. It turns out, we weren’t friends at all. I was her cobbler. Imagine being drained of healing properties you didn’t know you had.
3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams
You owe yourself your mental health. I can’t help you if I don’t help myself. No longer unable to identify those that drained my mental health, I’m ready to dig into my deeper subconscious.
Night time, maybe even dusk. Think state fair in Central Park. Able to order plates from amazon. Ordered pizza bbq chicken and other random fare. Conspiracy theorist meeting nearby. People go up a tower and don’t come down. I went up the tower before my food arrived and returned without remembering the trip. My food was covered but the random ppl that ordered with me were gone. Saw a homeless guy run further into the park. I gave chase then woke up.
I am growing. I think.
I see him everywhere in everything. I wish I was referring to my higher power but I’m referring to my lost and late love. I wonder if this will ever get any easier.
My chest hurts. I wanna cry but the strength and stubbornness in my melanin will not permit me to do so.
I need you because I trust you even though it doesn’t seem like it. Again, blame the stubbornness in my melanin.
A woman who cried often taught me that the only real emotion or relevant emotion was her anger. I don’t know how to fix it. I heard this is called Black Trauma.
I don’t want to kill myself. I have so many stories to tell and trips to take. I just want to feel better. When I breathe, I don’t want the crack in my heart to feel like it’s bleeding. I don’t want it to feel like the bricks I laid around my emotions are eroding, taking my ability to love and be empathetic away in the winds if experience.
3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Agony
I’m tired but can’t sleep. My eyes are burning but they won’t close. My brain hurts but it won’t rest. I’m trapped in a continuous REM state and the entire show is a nightmare.
January 2020, my first property will be a building. This building will be transformed into a privately funded transitional shelter for single individuals and families. At least 10 apartments to begin. Hebrews 11:1
I’m tired. I forget to pray for inner peace and when I remember, the stubbornness of a born sinner won’t allow me to follow Psalms but I think it was people like me that Jesus died for. I’m hoping this is sufficient.
I’m so tired.
I am tired.
I miss him so much. I don’t think any of my friends understand why. He loved me through the mental break downs before we understood my affliction to be a mental illness. He loved me anyway. His family loved me anyway. They even liked me despite the burden my 14 year old broken spirit arrived with.
You are among my dearest memories. When my mother was thought to be hours from death, it was you, the person I knew least who comforted me the most. It was you who kept me occupied. It was you who visited my mother when I could not. It was you who watched me cry without judgement. Thank you.
I want an ofrenda. My father had one but it wasn’t called an ofrenda. It was simply the ancestors’ room.
My phone is dying.
I can’t sleep.
But I must sleep.
Still nothing makes sense but I must sleep.
This is going to be short. Bare with me for a few. I’ve been writing and not posting. I thought I was feeling better but it seems that my work is still in a dark place.
Some of you may notice, as you travel through the the site that some of my random thoughts were reposted. This was, of course, done in error.
I’ve longed for sexual freedom for quite some time but I haven’t felt confident enough to free myself. Nevertheless, even if I were confident enough to find said freedom, I’m not sure it would heal what hurts.
My words are like caged birds.
Can we make love under the crackling thunder? The droplets of rain evaporate when they kiss our bare skin.
He said he’d buy me a collar then we’d do erotic things.
I wonder what those things include.
Would he instruct me to gracefully kneel and lift my hair?
As he fixes the collar to my neck, would his rough finger tips graze the tiny goosebumps on my nape?
Before he walks around to stand in front of me, lifting my chin so he can see me
Staring into my eyes so he can see us
Because I am now his submissive.
A reflection of his dominance,
A result of his care,
Remember when I started smoking? We smoked together. I used to spend the nights on the town and the days walking in the park before Mary Jane infiltrated my world. There were days the sun didn’t kiss my skin and nights the moon never got to meet the sun. We, instead, spent hours on the couch laughing over shotguns and zombies. We shared kisses infused with Hennessy and whiskey. Fresh herb stained our lips. What a life.
Our taste is on the tip of my tongue; our scent lingers on my lips and nose. A tingle remains on my backside to remind me of the way you popped my ass to correct my arch. I want to please you in every way.
I’m feeling antsy in this heat. I should be in the nude. Your hands should be fixed in the crooks of my knees. My knees should be pressed into ribs while your phallus massages my insides. The sound of coqui add to the soundtrack of our love making.
Let us recite our sacrilegious prayer. It’s the one we share prior to commencing congress. You give thanks to our higher power for giving me your rib. I give thanks for the strength in your backbone. Our lips unite after we say ‘amen.’ You’re delicious. Stroke me.