But Will She Stay?

Or, Will He Go?

MUSICAL SELECTION|EMOTIONS: DON’T ASK MY NEIGHBOR

I did not budge. I was not going to call the cops because I have a fear of them now that cannot be described. I do not feel protected. I do not feel served. I would rather not have my mom and best friend collect my body from a holding cell at my local precinct because my conscience would not shut up.

But I listened . . .

I was having a relaxing bath, soaking my aching leg, while reading and it happened . . . A door slammed. Her trembling voice followed. His shortly after. It shook me awake from my jump into another world and I instantly knew what this was — an argument. My walls shook from the second slam of a door.

The bathroom walls are paper-thin. I silently prayed, “Lord, whatever is about to happen, please don’t let it be something that will make me call the cops.” My new neighbors found themselves in a twisted situation and this place is not kind to those disturbing the peace, but while things played out, it sounded as though they may have needed this to happen.

That may be an ass-backward statement, but what I mean by this is perhaps this thing could be the defining factor of their relationship — of if there will be a relationship after tonight. A woman’s voice when rattled can break you. If you have any peace in your spirit, you will feel every word falling from her lips.

“IF YOU WANT TO BE WITH ME, THEN SHOW ME!”

She was cry-shouting at him and she said this over and over again and I felt my heartbeat quicken and my hands began to shake. I had not been around a couple arguing in years and this stirred up a fear in me that I forgot existed. I wanted to cry, I felt like I was about to cry, but his voice powered through . . .

“I MOVED HERE FOR YOU!”

She did not back down. She yelled her testimony to him. She made her reasons known and the back and forth of it came right back to her original statement, “If you want to be with me, then show me!” He said something that made me cringe — that made me want to jump out of the tub, throw on some clothes, grab my steel bat, and call my cousins to let them know what was up, but I remembered who I am. It still did not stop me from tearing me apart when he said, “I AM A GROWN MOTHERFUCKIN’ MAN. I DON’T HAVE TO SHOW YOU SHIT.”

There was quiet. It became too quiet. The kind of quiet that shows itself right before the main event and I thought, “I have to make sure he does not hit her, that she does not attack him.” I had to wait it out. I know what a blow to the head sounds like by a closed fist. Or, how a back cracks when it’s slammed against a wall. I grew up in a home where violence was the frontrunner for many years until it was not. I had to be sure they did not physically hurt one another. But verbally . . .

The damage had been done.

It passed, like a storm . . . Like a kidney stone punching through one’s bowels shoving its way into the light. A mellow tune played, what sounded like another door gently closing introduced itself, and the night began to feel safe again.

I wonder if she will gather her things, relocate to wherever she ran away from, or if she will stay loyal — glued to his side. I wonder if he will step it up. If he will try harder, if he even needs to. I wonder if they know just how thin the bathroom walls are and how afraid I had gotten hoping and praying that I did not have to call the cops.

There will be that awkward meeting when we pass each other in the morning. That brief, knowing smile or head nod. No one will mention a thing and we will go on like it never happened. But I will look at her and I will know that her heart is breaking.

I will silently tell her that mine is too.


Originally published via Medium.

Simone: The Wonders of a Goddess

In 7 Words

©MARK SELIGER 2016

thunder at your
heels
valiantly, you
soar.


©2019 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved/Originally published on Medium.


Author’s Note: With all that’s wrong in this world, something goes right and not enough light is shined on it, not in my opinion. After watching the video below about ten times and sharing it with my friends, I was moved to pen something. Like it or not, HISTORY was made and it came on the wings of a Goddess named Simone.

 

Death Still Comes

Silvestri Matteo|Unsplash

For: Toni Morrison

I don’t think there’s a word
for what I’m feeling. 
when you write and you’re black
and a woman and you lose
another beam of light that
gave you hope and taught you through
words how to bust out of
your skin:
no excuses, no looking back, no pulling
away from your core 
you fade . . .

bits of you break off,
float into the air, 
and paint the sky with sadness. 
I want to be able to
say how moved, enriched, and
motivated I was as someone who
followed her words. 
I don’t know how to do that
knowing that death still comes
even when you feel you
have so much more to learn. 
you have so much more to witness.

but the day ends after twenty-four hours
and a new one begins. 
that’s the constant of life. 
I will remember bluest eyes, 
beloved memories, Sula’s hips, 
passion-filled dreams, a home
away from home, and how to
love. 
I will remember
the gifts laid before me,
one million times ten — words
that blend in with my skin
and kiss the world.

I will remember
why I picked up 
a pen.


©2019 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved/Originally published on Medium

remora

Musical Selection: Cameo|Single Life

An Experiment

she is a budding blossom,
purple sunset on a red evening.
she sways her body to an unknown beat,
our heads bobbing to sounds we do not hear.

I sit back and watch her fearless eyes
oppose every caller who comes to steal her heart.
we are her audience,
she is giving us a show.
we’ve paid in advance and expect
an encore.

her hips circle the air,
sweet lips covered in blue,
cherry birthmark kissing crows feet — 
she’s wearing age confidently,
high-stepping on the moon’s nose,
leaving her mark.

we applaud her efforts,
the goddess falls from her pedestal
only to land near god.
her hands clasped in front of us — 
a plea?
no, she leads the lost to her
lying voice, twists our ankles when we stand,
and bellows beyond the void.

she is an obstacle,
the unclimbable mountain, and
every man’s ‘the one who got away.’
we stare at her, unable to move — 
transfixed
frozen
spellbound.


Originally published in The Junction via Medium.