This poem is striking, and I felt it moving deep within me as I read it. Please visit the author’s site to read it in its entirety, and to like and comment directly there.
Peace and blessings!
Your written contentyour voicecopyblog poststexts, captionsthe way you capture feeling on the pagecontextualize thoughtempower us through emotionbreathe life into the human experienceremind us what it feels like to liveto rememberminister to our memoryand most sacred truthsthe way you poetyour words, spoken or written is, power. A historical document your grandchildrenwill one […]
Another day of love for lovers is here, and I am unbothered by the frenzy and unfulfilled purposed people struggling to find the best gifts for others they half love Monday through Thursday, and find themselves wanting to be rid of by Friday.
I smile. I smirk. I know where it all ends, and sadly, where it will begin again, and I say, “I don’t need Valentine’s Day to express my love for another — to let them know I truly care. If I love you, you know. I tell you. I show you.” And I get stares that seem to skitter about from the eyes and roll off to skim through my thoughts.
I said what I said. And I meant it.
My mother is the only person who can call me and say, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and I don’t flinch or cringe — she has done it for decades now. Ain’t no stopping her. The pressure that comes with this day is abhorrent. I have seen people take their last $50.00 to semi-splurge on things their loved one didn’t need.
And here we are, living during a time when four gallons of gas will probably cause you to get evicted. Do what you want with your money, I know what I will be doing with mine.
This day reappears yearly, and it’s the same charade setting itself up on bended knees to knock every participant down and out before they can utter half-hearted “I love yous.”
Commercialism at its finest.
And you’ll succumb. You’ll buy the roses. You’ll book the restaurant reservation. You’ll get the diamonds and pearls and toe the line of bankruptcy to fulfill an empty heart that only really needs you — that only really needs . . . love.
I’ll try not to put my foot too far in my mouth, because I am loving a woman who will one day have me running out to find the best thing suited for the whole of her — of who she is — Valentine’s Day, included among all others.
If it’ll draw that dimpled smile from her face for eleven seconds, I’d succumb, too. But for now, I don’t need Valentine’s Day. It can’t have what I have and won’t give me what I want — what I need.
I’ll sit back and watch and wonder how much longer we’ll dive into the moneymaking day of love that still manages to leave people depressed when the day is done.
We are knee-deep in its throes . . . bound to sink in its making faster than we ever could in quicksand.
here you are; a warm welcome, renewed spirit, confident and secure — a peace I didn’t know I needed. my heart wells up with joy at the thought of your growth — how amazing you are, and the similarities sitting in your heart — so much like your mother but clearly your own self.
I stand in awe of you. I remember when you were born, how happy your parents were, and I lived for the updated photos, stories, and time spent with my little cousin who had a smile that could shame the sun.
so far away, always so far away — yet near enough to dwell in my mind — take up space I had no problem lending. you are a glorious, strong force in a world of terror and pain.
you pick up everything whenever you’re ready, relocate to places with half-hearted moons and split-tongue warriors with gray eyes.
we all live vicariously through you — we may not say it but we think it. free spirit — unafraid to make moves when moves need to be made, and on this, your day of birth, I want you to know that I love you to the full-bodied moon and back again.
there will be pregnant pauses for the rest of my day as I share time with my thoughts to appreciate your existence. happy birthday, Victoria. God gift you years upon years upon years more.
On Tuesday, February 07, 2023, my little cousin (Chrissy’s daughter) celebrated another year on this Earth, and I wrote this for her. Thank you for reading, and for listening, too.Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
I am taken aback by her — by who she is, what she does, and how she moves about in this world.
she is bold — passionate about life and her surroundings, and I stand on faltering feet, wondering when I’ll be able to l o o s e this confession curdling my spirit.
I am eating my words for dinner, submerging my heart into overflowing waters, stunted by fears that tangle my tongue.
women need to come with instruction manuals, and an extra five dollars behind their ears — I got tolls to pay every time I lose myself in one of them.
I get shy around her–nerves tighten my stomach muscles, and I play hide-n-seek with my words. why am I like this?
does she notice? will she say something?
and every day we shoot the shit like I ain’t dreaming about cuffing her to the base of my heart and whipping her hips under my arms.
“I’m a sinner. I’m a saint.”
and I no longer feel shame in this skin I’m in, but this woman . . . this fine, Black woman, skips and dashes, slips and thrashes her way into my mind more than I realize, and I
I am content in my skin — took me some time to be able to say this without flinching, but I have finally arrived.
I love how my hips sway uncontrollably to the sounds of the music of my people. I have fallen in love with my sense of style, my overall sassiness, and my lack of fear regarding speaking my mind.
I am strong in my stature and my thoughts and I am grateful for my ancestors before me; they did not think twice about who they were and what they offered this nation.
I am carved from unbreakable stone, washed by overflowing healing waters, and motivated by a tongue that can cut you down to size if a debate is invited.
I am not an “Angry Black Woman,” I simply get angry when you don’t understand me or worse — you won’t take the time to understand me.
I have centuries of pain loaded onto my shoulders — the cross I bear you will never be able to carry. It is made for me and my strength. I am walking the path designed for where I have to go.
I have learned to celebrate who I am; every facet, every curve, every minuscule thought that crosses my mind — all of it. And with this celebration of self, comes celebration of my ancestry.
And there is a sense of pride in this fact that can never be, won’t ever be negated.
People have been “misgendering” me before calling it out was a thing.
I carry a “male” name; one that typically appears before I do.
I cannot tell you how many times I have said, “But I am a woman,” or “It’s actually Tree•Maine.” If I had a dollar … You know the rest.
I’ve lived a life of correcting people about who I am and how I exist before I was old enough to vote. Before I was old enough to sort out who respected me vs. who just wanted to enunciate two syllables the way they wanted to.
There is no patience in learning one’s name or the person tasked with enduring it until the grave embraces them; not in this country.
Here is something I’ll share for free; if a person asks you to pronounce their name correctly, do it.
If a person asks you to use their nickname, do it. (Chances are, they’re tired of correcting you.)
If you have assumed the person is whatever gender you’ve envisioned for them before meeting them because you thought their name will lend you someone else, “That is a YOU problem.”
Fix it. Today.
**An earlier version of this piece appeared via ACG’s Instagram “stories.”Published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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