Tag: Men

catastrophic love & have we come far enough?

trE

Two poems shared on Substack notes

catastrophic love

his blithesome
demeanor captured
me.

I lost all of my
selves swimming
in the depths of his
eyes.

I was disruption;
a distraction…
we bombed before
we could elevate.

catastrophic love.

have we come far enough?

although I am the
eldest child, if this
were the 1500s or
I was of royal blood,
my arrival to first
would mean
nothing because the
next born has the
package; male
primogeniture cut me
to the quick.

imagine being the
first, most
dependable, always
responsible, and a
doer without being
prompted, yet your
earned position in
life depends on
what’s between your
legs.

that’s not a life I
would have enjoyed
living, but when I
assess modern
times and the fight
women constantly
battle, the system
is still rigged to
embrace the least
educated, the most
aggressive, and the
overly-praised, so…

how far have we
come, really?

Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?

I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with my place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

But Aren’t We All Spinning Now?

trE
AI-Generated Image. Created with Google Gemini. A White man with short, messy hair, standing in the middle of nowhere, holding up a crumpled letter. He is dressed in faded jeans with a matching jacket. He is wearing glasses and has a mustache running into a beard. Above him, the sky is dark & gloomy.

I caught the last forty-five minutes
of Spinning Man, and wondered
how I had never seen such a
trainwreck of a movie before. 

I won’t bore you with the details:
it is enough to make one’s head 
roll. Men have been coercing
women into the bowels of 
dysfunction for eons.

This shouldn’t be any different. 
It wasn’t. I think I’d just had my
fill of creepiness and absurdities
for half a year. 

Isn’t it something, though? 
To remember what never happened
and not remember what has? 
To spin while standing in place? 
Aren’t we all spinning now? 

The carousel of life is packed
with people losing their minds
under the guise of “survival of
the fittest,” and soon, we’ll all
be damned.

Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?

I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with my place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

marriage, no, thank you & his lack of charm drew me in

trE

Two poems posted on Substack notes

AI-Generated Image. A Black married couple who just got married. They are both smiling into the camera. A glimpse of sunlight shines in the background, highlighting their faces.

marriage, no, thank you.

I used to want
marriage–when I
dilly-dallied in my
20s and early 30s…

now, I’ve no yen to
lasso such a thing
close to me that
seems to depress
my loved ones.

Of all the married
couples I’ve ever
known, 30% of them
are happy. I don’t
care who you are,
that’s a frightening
statistic.

I envision myself
whole, free, loved,
and understood, and
I don’t have faith in
anyone else to make
me that way.

The journey must
begin and end with
me.

AI-Generated Image: A Biracial man standing with a look of confidence on his face, as he leans against a red truck.

his lack of charm drew me in

I wasn’t lying when
I said, “he isn’t
debonair.” he isn’t.
he wasn’t. but there
was something of
an allure about him–
how his lack of
charm convinced me
to reveal my caged
self.

all the baggage. all
the misplaced anger.
all the need for
space.

he was a breeze that
passed through at
the perfect time and
collected me during
my most heated
moments.

we relied on passion
to sustain us, and
that was our downfall.

Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?

I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent events with my place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.

Hello, God. How Are You?

trE

Remember me?

WordPress AI-Generated image of an African-American couple in deep thought, anguish, and regret.

I know you do. I ask
Not for a response, but
Rhetorically.
I received news that has
Broken me–torn my heart
Into thousands of pieces, so
I’m coming to you.

I always come to you–in
Sickness, health, during times
Of Sadness, and of joy.
This time, though . . . this
Time is different.

A feeling of worthlessness
Washes over me. I have
Been abandoned, neglected,
Rejected, and looked over for
Second bests and thriving
Environments are rising over
These selections.

Am I not worthy of coupleship?
Am I not worthy of a legacy?

Oh, God, the dog sleeps and
The tortoise has buried itself
Under its bedding in its cave.
They do not hear my cries.
The dog is deaf and the tortoise
Could care less, so I come
To you.

Four months later, he tells
Me of a baby girl he hasn’t been
Able to share . . . hasn’t been
Able to whisper to me of her
Name. Who we were stopped him.
We didn’t want marriage. We
Didn’t want children, but we
Loved them.
He married. He now has a child,
And four months later, he speaks.

About her . . . about the beauty
Behind her eyes.
My phone floods with pictures
Of this sweet and precious soul,
And I see him in her, his mother,
And his father, and then he says,
“We need to talk, but I’ll have
To find time to do so freely,
I didn’t want to
Tell you like this.”

And I break down.
Not from sadness about the
News. Not because I am
Not “The One.” But because he
Felt like he couldn’t tell me.
But because he felt like our
History–our trauma from our
Upbringings would crush his
Words.

How do you tell the
One you didn’t marry, you didn’t
Have children with because you
Both were afraid that you now
Have crossed off the second
Thing y’all never wanted to do?

I put on his shoes.
I take a walk in them.
I try to understand.
I take long, deep breaths, and
Then, I cry.

God, we are where we are
Because of the decisions
WE made. We ran. We felt
Like we would mess up
Just as our parents did.
We didn’t want to fuck up
Children–break the cycle,
Shift the curse . . .

Fear will make you miss out
On life. And it did. With us.
Keep him safe. His wife, too.
And now, his baby girl.
Please, God. I know you will.
I know you can.

And the pain I feel now
Will not be with me next year.
I will be free. I will accept
What is and what will be.
I know that my life as it is
Now will not be what it is
In the future.

Whatever you do, God,
While you’re remembering my
Prayers for him and his family,

Please remember me.

NaPoWriMo #10

trE

Damage Control

He wasn’t built to
love her with his
whole heart–he’d been
damaged, and she was
saving herself for a man
who knew how to break the
walls of her hardened heart
down.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

She saw through his
cloudy existence, and fed
off his syrupy words, so
sticky and sweet, but
she wouldn’t reject his
advances.

She played nice with this
man who clicked his tongue
and snapped his mind
back into the now–willing
it from actions of the past.
He swallowed every image
of her and filled his
belly with lies.

For decades, he spent hours
dissecting his former self
from his present self, and
now that it’s time to love
again, the control he never
had sneaks up on him.

Forever changed. Forever damaged.

At What Point Do Bi-women Tell the Voices In Their Head to Be Quiet?

trE

How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!

Photo by Ugochi U on Unsplash

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.