fly on the wall
Tag: LGBTQ
Dedicated To You
Musical Selection: Drake|How About Now
A free verse audio poem
I have never been the type
to brag, so I won’t start now,
but I am okay.
No, really. I am the happiest
I have been, and it took pain,
death, grief, and moving
through your lookalikes to
know that I deserve this happiness.
People are telling me it
looks good on me, I wear it
well.
My smile still brightens up the room.
What did you used to call me?
“Sweet beauty,” wasn’t that it?
Because you said I was
“beautiful” and “sweet”, and it
used to be a dangerous combination.
And it still is.
But I know how to use
these tools now… without you.
I know how to enjoy the little
things now… without you.
I wonder what you tell the
kids about me — who I’ve now
become since we ain’t
mingling around in the same
waters.
Will they embrace me if they
see me in public or would
they shun me and keep
it moving.
A friend of mine told me a few
weeks back, “It’s going to be
the constant thoughts about the
children that’s going to do you in.”
And she is right.
Because when you’ve poured so much
of yourself and your love
into the children of someone
you love — someone you dreamt
would pick up and settle with
you — healing takes longer.
I love hard, so I hurt harder.
And I used to carry the hurt
on the tip of my tongue,
and these days, I let my pain
splash the hurt over papyrus
and my fingers type the hurt
out via keys.
I ain’t singing no blues.
I got joy deep down in my
heart, instead.
And it’s because of you.
It’s because of getting over
you, and that’s a blessing.
You gave me a gift I did not
know I needed.
And now that it is here,
watch how quickly it blossoms — if you can
from where you are,
on your high horse.
I wish you well.
I always have.
I always will.
— Don’t think you have
ever wanted me well, though.
And if you did, I was too
blind to see it.
Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
At What Point Do Bi-women Tell the Voices In Their Head to Be Quiet?
How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!
Single, Black, independent bi-women hear voices, too.
Beatrice is a 36-year-old charge nurse in the OR for St. Agnes Memorial Hospital in Blue Lake Falls County. She is a sufferer of migraines, a prisoner to insomnia, and a magnet for bowed-leg men who don’t know any better.
On the eve of her fifth anniversary of work, she began reminiscing about Mike. Mike with the double-dimpled cheeks, endless credit line, and badass walk. But . . . he was a stranger to commitment.
Why is it Mike?! Why would she think about him after the way he left things between them?
He still has two bags of clothing and a pair of shoes in my closet! The nerve of that man! He was supposed to come and get this shit months ago.
She looks around her somber bedroom for clues. Did he leave anything else? No. Just his voice.
And his voice, along with that of Charlie and Omaira’s, seemed to play hopscotch in her mind multiple times per day.
Charlie scooped her heart right from her chest, licked the pain away that surrounded it, and added more. Intentionally or unintentionally, she still isn’t sure.
Omaira had been a woman she met through a mutual friend (let’s call her Sydnee), who thought she would like to try something different. And “different” was perfect for her for five years.
Until it wasn’t. Omaira gave Beatrice one last orgasm before stealing her vintage jewelry, three pairs of costly heels, and the spare key to her car. The car — she had taken to a local chop shop. Easy money.
She wouldn’t find out Omaira had been battling kleptomania until weeks later. She spins the thought of it around in her head once again.
How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!
She hated this quality of hers; the knowing and unknowing of things she so casually continued to do. She wanted to hear something else. Anything other than their voices.
Needless to say, these were people she shouldn’t be thinking about, but she was. And isn’t that how love is sometimes?
It sneaks up on us in one of its best disguises, lures us in, carves out a piece of our heart, and then exits stage left — leaving us limp-lipped and unamused.
The alarm clock screeches. It is 06:00 AM. Another night without sleep. Another night without rest.
Another night of fighting those voices in her head.
Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.
July
We Are. We Are Not. We Cannot Be.
An audio-revised free verse poem
I watched as you burned sage,
cleansing your home of another
breakup,
burying a relationship you thought
would not live up to its
potential,
You were right.
In the brisk air of the hallway,
the smoke led itself down an
uneven path, one I’ve often
taken into the road of you.
thirsts forever unquenched.
who you are to everyone
else will never be
who you are to me, and only
we know the . . .
Truth.
It’s often those who are clever
who bark up trees with no
grip to console their feverish minds,
nipping at pastimes, trying
to pick up where they left off,
leaving the accolades of the
good ole days in raggedy
trashcans, unsure of how to
dispose of each
One.
Didn’t you find me in
your reflection standing behind
years of torture yet holding
every memory we made over
your head as a reminder of
how insouciant you are?
belligerent in shaky armor,
a world of “No, thank you” and
“Please, leave me alone”
lingers on the tip of
your tongue . . .
We Are. We Are Not. We Cannot Be.
©2017 & 2023 Tremaine L. Loadholt Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
when a mother meets a secret crush
A Cornered Gurl 
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