3 AM RAMBLINGS & Indistinct Dreams

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.

I’m tired.

My phone is dying.

I can’t sleep.

But I must sleep.

Still nothing makes sense but I must sleep.

Master’s Masterpiece

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,

His masterpiece.

:Random 56:

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.

:Random 54:

Lay up with me under clouds of weed smoke. Your fingers part my lips while you kiss the other pair.

:Random 22:


I stepped out of my apartment and into the hallway. There was a sweet burning smell that reminded me of my father’s home. I inhaled deeply and the weight of the air filled my heart. I miss him dearly. I closed my eyes and inhaled again. I was in a room that was more foreign to me than my father. It was his ancestors’ room and my presence was forbidden.

Alter Ego


Who is she?
She smokes cigars but still smells
like the first dance of spring.

Thick legs,
beautiful smile,
& a heavy heart.

Hard liquor coats her tongue
& singes your lips.

No make up,
hair unkempt,
brown skin
with worn leather framing her eyes.

Never begging for love.
Touch mimicking light rain,
words like thunder,
& unapologetically
freer than the wind.

Love thy Melanin

I read a personal essay about a dark skinned woman that envied her light skinned friend. I found the article when researching different ways of describing Black women with lighter skin. Anyhow, this essay was so very important to me. One, it noted the banality of best friendships between dark skinned and light skinned women (something to consider when writing). Two, and more importantly, it spoke for me. The essay spoke for me and said something I had hardly admitted out loud unless I was holding private discourse.

It’s true, on a scale of one to ten, I am probably a steady five with pretty teeth. I went from lamenting in this fact as a high school student to reveling in it as a college dropout. I can’t be attractive, so I’ll be smart, witty, over sexualized, and hilarious. This worked for a long time until it didn’t. It worked until I had my first child and being the succubus I had grown to adore was no longer acceptable.

In transitioning from party girl to working mother, I had lost sight of the beauty I had learned to see in myself. Then all at once, during my self-examination, it occurred to me that what I once saw was superficial beauty. It was beauty I mainly found in my sexual parts. So I dug deeper.

Outside of having a dislike for my skin tone alone, I also had the misfortune of having non-European features. This would be a wide nose, broad forehead, and round cheeks. Now I’m seeing my color from a different perspective. Now I’m noticing that it’s okay to have such bold features with fair skin and dainty features with darker skin. This discernment caused the scale to further tip against me, or so I thought.

The more I researched the many different colors of the human race, the more I  have learned that there is no such thing as non-Euro or otherwise African features; that long before America’s melting pot, there was Mother Africa in all of her diverse glory. So if it’s not my skin that makes me dreadfully unhappy with my appearance, then what is it?

Am I a victim of deep seeded self-loathing, a long term result of the Lynch Letter? It’s possible. Is what I am experiencing closer to self awareness rather than self hate or self pity? That could be it as well.

Is there anything wrong with knowing that you didn’t win the gene lottery and yet you are still priceless? I don’t think so.

I think if I am able to feel like it’s okay to not look like a sun kissed goddess but still feel like a million bucks then where does that leave me? I’m not sure but it’s the closest to resolute that I have ever been.

It’s funny because I believe my children are terribly beautiful. There was a time when I had a hard time believing that they came from me. I don’t want them to feel inferior based on their appearance which is why it’s even more important for me to find the answers.