Deflowered (Revised)

tilted and facing the sun,
she opens for him.
freshly bloomed, the signal to
d e f l o w e r
is released.

her stem, streamlined love,
leaning towards his gaze,
heaven in a bed of
p e t a l s
eagerly satisfied, he sips
dew from her leaves.

a garden of lovemaking
moonshine ribs and breasts
no cloaks to hide their
s i n
the calming presence of
wind chimes embrace
them, they’ve become one.

Eden, a treasure trove,
a haven for those seeking
p l e a s u r e
hides acts of nature
in the ever-changing wills
of their bones.

deflowered as the
world looks
on.

I Waited, He Never Came

Musical Selection: Kendrick Lamar & Rihanna|LOYALTY

I Waited, He Never Came

Flash Fiction

You talkin’ ’bout Tony, right? That dude never came — had me waitin’ on the corner for him for like two hours. No show, man. A straight-up no show. I missed my mom’s-n-’nem homemade spaghetti for that dude, too. I don’t usually put anyone before a good meal and I did for that guy.

I thought he was real, ya’know? Thought I could hang tight for’em up there, make the exchange, get the money, then go home.

I bet you think I’m talkin’ bout drugs, dontcha? Yeah. Nah, pahtna. Me and the homie had a deal. I got a closet full of Jordans, some I ain’t even wore yet — still chillin’ in the boxes they came in — he wanted two pairs; some Retro 11s and a pair of Dub Zeros. Yo, that’s $375.00 I expected from Ole Boy!

I ain’t mad, though. I got two other cats hittin’ me up for a few more. But, I would’ve liked to have that extra $375, ya’know? I found me a nice spot over on 5th Avenue; 2 bedroom/1 bath, patio, hardwood floors. It’s time to get outta my mom’s place — been thinkin’ ’bout this for a while. I’m 25 now.

I thought he was real, ya’know? Thought I could hang tight for’em up there, make the exchange, get the money, then go home.


She all sad and whatnot. Shufflin’ ’round the apartment playin’ those bluesy, heartache tunes. I can’t take that shit, man. So I work, come home, make a few calls, and try to close these deals with some legit folk.

I got two sisters and a brother. My brother and one of my sisters, they’re twins. My other sister, she’s right under me — 23 and if she even thinks about tryna move, Moms on her like white on rice.

It’s time to get outta my mom’s place — been thinkin’ ‘bout this for a while. I’m 25 now.

She’s afraid of an empty nest. Afraid to hear her breath as the only one amongst the echoes and shit of a child-free home.

I told her, “You gotta let us go. Loosen your grip. We’re grown. We’re meant to leave.” She ain’t tryna hear that. The twins are 17. I feel for them when they get ready to make moves. My mom’s holdin’ on to these parts of her, you see . . .

My dad died 6 years ago — lupus. He had some type of relapse and couldn’t get back on track. Nothing helped. None of those damn meds they pumped into his body pumped him back into our lives.

He died right there at Mercy Medical Memorial Hospital and my mom been searchin’ for bits and pieces of him to hang on to since then. I don’t know what it feels like to be a widow but I know pain. I miss him as much as she misses him, but I know my missin’ him and her missin’ him are two different things.

“You gotta let us go. Loosen your grip. We’re grown. We’re meant to leave.”

But back to that dude Tony . . . No, I haven’t seen’em. Trust me, if I had, I’d be smilin’ right now from ear to ear. I’ve got 3 more weeks until the big move and I’m gathering up funds and saving as much as I can.

My gig — I’m a DJ, is enough to pay the rent and a couple utilities each month, but I need rainy day and play all day money, ya’know?

But, listen . . . if you see’em, tell Ole Boy, I waited and he never came. But if he still wanna get at me ’bout them Jordans, I got him. He knows how to reach me.


Originally published in P.S. I Love You via Medium.

Sometimes, I Feel Like I’m Losing My Voice

A Writer’s Lament

Photo by Arantxa Treva via Pexels

And I know it’s the overwhelming year that’s nearly behind me and feverishly thinking about the one ahead of me but as a writer, I cannot lose my voice. I am not talking about the physical sound from the use of my vocal cords but my writer’s voice — the authenticity that is me.

There’s pressure all around us. As creatives, we strive to pursue a place in the artistic world where we can be heard, but in a sea of sames, how can our differences stand out? The one thing I do not want to lose as it pertains to my craft is my uniqueness.

I do not want to lose myself in the sea of sames. I have worked hard to carve out space in this world for myself and my way of giving people the ideas that come to me as I toss and turn at night.

This — this writing thing is my freedom song. I write about my life. I write about what I wish my life was. I write about the beauty of the lives of others. And I write about the untruths and could-bes and would-bes of this world. There is a space of peace that shows itself when I am writing.

There’s pressure all around us. As creatives, we strive to pursue a place in the artistic world where we can be heard, but in a sea of sames, how can our differences stand out?

I lose myself in the words.

Of late, I have felt as if I am pulling words from the pit of my stomach, stretching them out to their true length, and delivering them to a wholesale warehouse for direct manufacturing. What I’m trying to say is, it’s been hard.

If you’re reading this and nodding your head in agreement, I wish I had the answer. What I have told myself to do is, “Practice more. Stress about things less. Just write, Tre.” It’s working. Little pep talks have become my friends.

Every so often, I have to remind myself that no matter how many clones there are touting the same advice, using the same template, and running around after each other to see who can push out the most articles per week, I must remain who I am.

Of late, I have felt as if I am pulling words from the pit of my stomach, stretching them out to their true length, and delivering them to a wholesale warehouse for direct manufacturing.

And who I am is my voice.

I have lasted five, almost six years on Medium and fourteen on WordPress, growing each year and giving a little bit more of myself at the same time too. I refuse to follow a cookie-cutter pattern or waddle behind a crowd chasing too-good-to-be-true outcomes.

I want to stand in line by myself, but I also want to share that line with others who will not strip the beauty of themselves away to put on the skin of those who lose themselves just to get ahead. I am here. I work hard to keep my presence pure. I don’t want to be like anyone else.

But sometimes I feel like I’m losing my voice. And should it seem like I have dear reader, I urge you to tap me on the shoulder and bring me back to earth.

Please.


Originally published in CRY Magazine via Medium.

Featured Writer for November

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.


POETRY

Opening

How to speak of sexuality

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.

As the World Burns

Writers and Artists Reflect on a World Gone Mad

Photo by Tremaine L. Loadholt

A brief description from Candice L. DaQuin’s blog, The Feathered Sleep:

As The World Burns is available via all good book stores in Kindle and softback NOW. It is an incredible collection of writers, many of whom are from WordPress and are in our writing groups, writing some of our favorite work. We hope you will support them and our efforts to spread awareness of socially vital subjects. If you have felt frustrated with politics, COVID-19, Black Lives Matter, Homophobia or any of the things happening ‘as the world burns’ this is the collection for you.

The Feathered Sleep, November 2020

I am excited about this anthology as I have been looking forward to holding my copies (one for myself, one for my mom, and one for my best friend) in my hands since I purchased them online via Amazon. I have two poems featured in this masterpiece among many other WordPress writers and I would be delighted if you gave this work of art a chance. Creatives create: we find a way to push what’s locked inside us out and we do so using various methods/mediums of art. Mine just so happens to be writing.

What’s yours?