spaghetti strap-sized scoldinggirls used to get sent home fortheir sunburnt shoulders why would we make it so easy to oglewhy would we make it so worth looking at how often were we taught thatsomeone else’s wandering gazewas our fault
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If you’re not reading Elle, perhaps you should be. This poem is a gut-punch and will remain with me for quite some time.
Let it marinate. It’ll stick with you too.
I know so many women who’ve found themselves in this predicament. They’ve stayed so long with their partner(s) they’ve forgotten how to live on their own and they’re willing to remain in that relationship, regardless of how they’re being treated because it’s all they know–it’s all they’ve allowed themselves to know. And the fear of failing outside of the relationship scares them more than dying within the relationship ever could.
I’ve had to leave a couple friendships because the toxicity of what they were used to seeped into the seams of who we were. It’s harmful. It’s hurtful. And it’s a hindrance on their lives and the lives of others. Sadly, no one can force them out of their situations. It’s something they have to find the strength and belief in themselves to do.
my blood can’t handle any more apologies, insistence on the right to celebrate genocide…
Thanksgiving Eve: A Poem
A poem by the lovely Jennifer Patino. Let it sink in. Allow it to marinate for a moment in your bones. However you spend this day, I hope you do it safely and with more awareness than you should probably have.
Please go to the original poem to “like” and “comment.” Her words deserve that. Peace and blessings.
My kid sister probes me
for information. She needs to
know more about me.
Our upbringing was an odd one.
I’m more of a mother-figure to her
than a big sister; with 19 years
separating us, she “ma’ams” me
rather than “Ooh, girl” or
“Child, pleases” me and it just seems weird.
She urges me to open up, to share,
but I’m not really the type to complain
more than I need to or
give more of me than I should.
I’ve learned who to shed skin
with and who not to and this isn’t
to say that my sister isn’t to
be trusted, no, that’s not it.
I’m just . . . careful now.
I want to vent sometimes to her,
I want her to hear me when I’m
in distress, yet there’s this overwhelming
feeling to protect her too
even if it’s from me.
She assures me she’s old
enough to digest what I
dole out but I’m hesitant.
I’ve lived a far different life
and my demons tend to follow
me along my sacred paths and
my sister is still growing,
still learning. I don’t want her
to know the me that drives
people away. I’m still working
on that me.
I need her around.
I’d hate for her to be one more
person I find myself chasing
after; another heart to grip.
People want you to strip
bare, stand naked before them,
but many of them aren’t ready
for the curves and folds and
two-toned skin. They just want
to see more of you even if
more of you isn’t beautiful.
It’s one more thing they can
hang over your head, dangle like
a dagger, cut you to the quick.
I’m trying. I swear, I am.
I ask her to be patient with me,
to understand — I have a way
and my way is comforting.
I can’t be rushed.
She understands.
Thank God in heaven.
She understands.
Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
SP Reis reached out to me just this past week and after I reviewed her profile on Medium, it was a no-brainer to add her to A Cornered Gurl. She is direct, concise, poignant, and rhythmic in her delivery. Her debut poem has all of this and more. You’ll see why I did not hesitate to add her to our community as a contributor. Opening, her first contribution to us, is below.
Every beginning
comes from an opening.
The bravery to
trust in creativity and,
give love
sacredly.
If Moses parted the Red Sea,
then the watery space in between
found home in the
opening of women
from which life gives
and receives
freely.
If the earth was born of explosion,
then it was born from conspiracy
by chemicals to dive
at a chance encounter
with an opening of
trust.
So if you talk to me
about sexual wanting
do not speak
without the words
open,
sacred,
trusting and
free.
Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
A fresh batch of brownies lay on the counter. We sniff the luring scent, slip on our clothes, and rush down the stairs. I’ve got my heart set on the two middle brownies & my sister craves two from the corners. She’s eager to dash from the entrance of our kitchen to the sweet smell of love and hard work.
Our mom outdid herself this time. We both knew it. The fresh scent travels throughout our home and wafts around every corner of every room. My sister looks at me, I look at her — hesitantly; we measure each other up — lingering in our newfound glory. I nod my head toward her and watch her cherub-like face light up. That’s her cue to take a bite.
We sink our teeth into the gooey goodness of chocolate. Every morsel melts in our mouths — we land on a small slice of heaven. The brownies are both chewy and moist and filled with everything we could have possibly dreamed up if anyone were to ask us.
We take another bite in unison — fudge drips on to our fingers. I lick remnants of evidence from my hands and advise my kid sister to do the same. There’s no hiding the fact that we’ve had our share of this exquisite dessert and we will not deny it if asked, but . . .
How could anyone ignore the luring scent of fudge brownies?
*This began as a response to a Twitter BraveWrite prompt. The prompt word was batch. I liked this so much, I decided to expound on it here.
Originally published in The Weekly Knob via Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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