INTIMATE.

What's your favourite deadly sin?
You know the one you so easily slip into
Like a night gown, a second skin.
And don't give me that look.
That pious, unknowing look.
As if it's something you've never thought of,
As if it's something you've never imagined.
Not in my wording, you haven't
But you've thought about it alright.

Mine's lust.
It was nearly a close tie with pride.
Nearly.

Sexuality is a gift.
Arguably, a piece of divinity.
And I honestly mean that in a non-blasphemous way.
Nothing to be ashamed of,
But I'm a... 
Forget black...
I am an African girl
Daughter of the soil
And I'm meant to say the very word in whispers.

I'm meant to tuck it underneath my lengthened hemlines,
I'm meant to tuck it underneath my unspoken inners.
You know the ones we were taught to hang where no 'male' figure could see them and 
the ones we knew far better than to leave lying around.
Lest he sees. Lest he freaking sees.

I'm meant to never to speak of it,
this sexuality that could bring me shame,
this sexuality that should I flaunt, will make them
question my morals and, 
undoubtedly, how I was raised.


Sexuality is a gift,
Our gift.
Sexuality is our star dust, on what's already chocolate gold.
The span of my hips, the glorious curves, the allure when I look at you longingly and how my lips draw you in, daring you to taste my smile.
Full and plump.

The red curtain of womanhood ,
in it's physical nature at least.

And why should I be ashamed?

Why should I drape it in layers and layers of cloth?
Why is it for 'him' to uncover, to unravel, to unfold?

"Why is it something that is taken from me,Rather than given"-Ifemelu.

It is mine.

I-love-icecream-on-summer-days
My former web domain,
Because human beings are just about as consistent
as ice cream on a hot day.

I am the daughter of a King,
I am a gift from God
Embellished in His glory 
Embellished in His love,
Crowned and bedazzled,
Oh no, my crown don't come from some over-sang Girl Power anthem.
Cut out to radiate
To scorch the earth like wildfire,
You couldn't possibly wrap your head around what's inside,
A whole freaking universe.

You insist on 'loving' me,
Boy, you wouldn't even know how.

"..He who dares not grasp the thorn,  

should never crave the rose"

Yet
Yet,
You insist,
You still insist on serving me
that half- baked, half-assed "love".

That half-assed, self-serving "love".

The sheer mockery of that Corinthians 1:13 love,

That 'as long as it pleases you' - love.
That 'as long as I put out' -love'
Conditional.

That convenient love,
that love that dusts you off when you feel bruised,
that fluffs up your ego
that love that considers me a conquest,
something to parade in front of the guys.
You've claimed me in public,
and for that I owe you.

Because that's the thing with your "love",
It's all about keeping a ledger,
Of rights,of wrongs.
A scoreboard.

That love that you so easily confessed 
thinking maybe I'll admire your valor,your boldness.
That love that love that you so easily give away,
that when it serves you,
You may take away,
with a similar ease.

You've learnt the code,the right sequence of syllables
that so easily opens my heart
that fills me with this overwhelming desire for your love
Your half-baked,half-ass,self-serving love.
And you speak it so eloquently.

That's the funniest thing about this half-ass love you serve,
that love that praises only parts of me,
and the rest you dismiss like some bad habit
that I'll soon outgrow.
My interests,merely some naive childish amusement,
while yours,the height of sophistication and maturity
 'good taste'

The funniest thing is I'm to be grateful,
Thankful
for this half-ass love,
I'm supposed to be thankful for the attention,
That you looked my way,
Thankful that you called me back,
Or that you've saved my name with little hearts.
thankful for your half-ass effort
Your after-thought gestures,
That you picked up on the 'standard girl's' wishlist.

And I'm supposed to be greatful about the names,
The lousy-ass names
The lazy-ass,lousy-ass names.
Lazy and lousy like 'beautiful'
As if beauty doesn't fade,
As if beauty isn't a matter of perspective.

As if I don't see myself nearly enough,
Because that's the other thing,
You believe,you really do
that you're telling me
stuff I've never heard before
As if you solely uncovered the holy grail.
And you alone have been gifted with the words to describe it.
You ought to hear yourself

And I will not tell you this,

I snicker at your ignorance.
I sneer at your blatant lack of foresight.
Let's play a little,spin me a little web
Throw me,some clever wordplay
at least then you honor my intellect,my maturity
at least then you show some level of self-respect.
You're pitiful,
Almost begging me to fall for you.
Half-pleading,half-commanding.
To be totally and completely lost in you.
You really ought to hear yourself.

And you're so sure of yourself,
It's amusing
Your air of confidence and arrogance
That I couldn't possibly,in my right mind
Say no.
You really,really ought to hear yourself.

You ask me questions or make unbecoming comments
Little cues,
Whose answers are to determine 
If I'm worthy of this plagued love.
If I'm, worth the pursuit.
You never hunt unless you're assured of a kill.

The little things,that are never so little.
That suggest I'm malleable.
that I can be bent,folded to your will.

I subtly,unknowingly must suggest to you, 
that though I may be aware I am pretty ,which is a slippery slope
in itself
I'm not too aware
See being too aware makes me arrogant,
Less-manageable,and translates into more work to
both get and keep me by your side.

But still that I tidy up just fine,keep my hair just in place
Keep it tight
and,
that I can transit effortlessly from the red carpet
to some scruffy laid back up-do and sweats,
So that though I clean up good,I'm still real,
Real and Authentic.
And this real and authentic,must be seen
Must be certified.

And you love me in my natural hair,
because it enhances my authenticity,
You're careful though,not to phrase it that way,at least for a time,
Because you and yours are the sole determiners of
this female authenticity you so passionately speak of,
.
Because someone died and made you king.
and you go on and on,
littering the earth  with your ignorant,unwelcome opinions
because you're always at the helm of the 
"Why should girls draw on their eyebrows/lace up weaves debate"

You're all about that "Show me something natural like ass with some stretch marks"
Referencing Richard Pryor,like he's your barber.

Let's overlook the fact that you start listening to conscious rap when the depth of the lyrics is lowered to please your mainstream ears and you stop immediately after the message becomes subliminal,and it's about societal revelations and revival.And the hook is no longer catchy.

I honestly think your kind 
(Because we are referring to a kind,
A kind we know too well,or maybe we even are)
is obsessed with our authenticity
Not because you're into all that 
'Brown girl,your skin is gold-Black girl magic'

You're simply consumed by your own insecurities,
And I'm no white cloth,but yours cut way,way deeper than the surface.
And you hope that by displaying our so called 'imperfections'
We may pardon yours.

That we may embrace you,
You who after a face beat or that Brazilian -wavy 24-inch weave or some killer-ass outfit
We feel we're too good for.

Because in our 'natural' we're more approachable,
An easier goalpost
Less likely to serve that brutal rejection,you're so fearful of.
Let's be honest.
Take a seat,like Kendrick suggests.
Several actually.

"Cause what's real is something that the eyes can't see,
that the hand can't touch" 
I'm sure you know the song.

I  must also subtly,unknowingly suggest,
 that though I don't dwell so much on you wife-ing me
 because that has a needy ring to it and blah-blah-blah

I still must suggest that I posses wifely qualities
Because 'wife-material' is supposed to be a badge of honour,
lets just ignore the fact that it simply denotes the ability to feed oneself,maintain a habital environment and have that beloved nuturing streak.
Basic human skills,
there's nothing macho about the inability to feed yourself,
To properly feed yourself and others,clean up etcetra.

I was once asked "Don't tell me,you're one of those girl's who doesn't want children"
Because that's the worst form of human you could possibly be.
Let's look past the fact that what warranted this remark,
Was my stating "That I wouldn't want to specialize in pediatrics"

And  to be honest,maybe I'm too young or whatever,
but the whole us(females) having an 'inherent desire' to carry our own children is utter bullshitt,

Perhaps it's stated so that,
we who lack this 'inherent desire' should
feel ashamed,lacking,drowned in foreign ideologies
It's not that I don't want my uterus to be a vessel of life,
It's just that It's not that big of a deal,it really isn't
I'd be more than happy to adopt my kin,if need be
There's something glorious and saintly
About giving someone a second chance at life

But this 'inherent desire'  that we must have
is the kind that causes women to cower because you are supposedly 'less of a woman',
the kind that has them moving earth and sky
inflicting themselves with all forms of self-hate to counter the vacuum.
This inherent desire we must have discards the infinite ways we can serve the Good Lord without bearing offspring.

Depth,is the other thing I must suggest to be worthy of pursuit,
Strongly suggest,
I must wear it loudly like a dog collar,
If he's intellectual.or some sort of sapiosexual.

And he'll retort this quality it to others
And to me ,as a term of endearment, 
As if I'm unaware of my own intellect,
So that I thank him for his insight,for really seeing me
And he'll probably throw in something like
"I'm not like other girls","I'm different" and what not.

Of course I'm different and of course I'm special,there isn't another like me.
Because there isn't another like anyone,genius😒

And it doesn't even have to be that I'm book-smart
Something artsy will do just as well,
My blog for instance
you'll then skim through a piece and supposedly fall in love.😒

Or even that I'm well read
slipping book titles and authors comfortably into conversation.
It doesn't have to be factual,remember I'm simply suggesting 
Anything really,
Something that shows that I look at the world,in depth or however else you'll describe it to your friends.
You'll phrase it less charmingly of course
to them,probably say something like 'I'm the complete package"

And before I forget,I must suggest that I am the portrayal  of the acclaimed 'Independent woman'
I would say the thick independent woman because that's the craze these days
but then again thick is a body type you're either born thick,or you can subscribe to one of those fitness blogs and pledge allegiance to the squat rack.
So let's just say  I must suggest that
 I'm the strong independent woman.
You haven't the slightest idea what that evenmeans,
you're just barfing some image that's been painted out for you
and anyway 
you wouldn't even know how to handle one,if she came with instructions.


I must suggest that I 
refrain from using terms like 'feminist,woke'
I don't need a man
and I most certainly don't subscribe to their ideologies.
 It doesn't sit well,It's unsettling.
I must refrain from 'strong opinions' in general
You'll deem me angry,bitter or heartbroken
And that's the drama you doesn't want to be around.

I don't need a man
this one's a tight rope.
I mustn't be a damsel in distress,but I must still  'let you' feel like a man
'Let you feel like a man' 
This phrase literally makes me sick to my stomach.
So you take care of me,but when needed I can hold my own.
The circumstances are ill-defined and sometimes even overlap
but for sure nothing fills up your ego faster than the words
 'I need you','please stay','don't go'
It's kinda hard to understand,I don't get it either
but then again I don't subscribe to all this patriarchal bullshitt,but hey.

So there I am pretty,seemingly authentic,wifely,deep,a possible rising star,and independent yet still having sufficient need you and yours in my life.Add the fine-line between slutty and prude and I'm all set.Maybe throw in the suggestion that I'm emotionally supportive,that I let you feel heard,that I let you feel like you brought me to some 'new'.And then I remember not to nag.

And then go beyond suggesting,shove these qualities in your face
To really seal the deal
Declare them,vocalize desperation,
The fear of being alone,the incessant need for validation and approval,the gnawing insecurity

You'll dish out your half-ass,self-serving love,
you might even let me keep it,longer than your previous conquests.
You've found an anchor 
somewhere to dock your stray and ever-wandering boat
A harbor you can come to,
to refresh,to refill on your journey.
I am just another pit-stop 
A lauded and acclaimed pit-stop
But a pit-stop all the same.
You see,
Your love,isn't even made of the stuff of forever.
It's transient ,fleeting,passing.
Seasonal.

 And to secure your place,to build up the attatchment
You've learnt to pick up what I supposedly desire the  most
My interpretation of the lighthouse
and you begin to fill it
like some back-page Sudoku puzzle.
And for a time I am full,
I am beaming, I'm content

And I too fill whatever void it is your cradling,
The one you can't possibly seem to fill,the reason you can't sit still
 I fill it imperfectly,
a thumb,in the crack 
of a caving brick wall.

Swallowed in ignorant bliss
for a time anyway.

Or maybe I am your saviour,
of some kind or other.
Nursing wounds in you
that I didn't know existed.
With every touch,
I knead you back to wholeness
"I colour you where the world left you grey"
And you long for our conversations,
Long and lush,
because I quieten the darkness,
I silence the voices 
that convince you,you are unworthy,un-whole,unloved
 And you adore me for this.

And I fill you with my mantras
And when you think of me you feel lightened. 
And for the first time in a long time
You are happy,
Stupid,flimsy happy.

Saviour's are perfect though,
and when the pedestal crumbles
you're disgusted by my inability to hold the fort.
You're the only one allowed to have imperfections
To have short-comings
And I'm supposed to fix them
and if I can't, 
I'm supposed to soften your perception of them.
To forgive your 'acting out'
to constantly remind myself that you're justified
So I shouldn't be angry,
to convince you that you deserves the world's compassion.

And so you love me with that,
That transient,fleeting,seasonal love.
That 'one drunken night at the bar love'
That 'honeymoon phase' love
That hurriedly shoved three letter sentence
that makes me ammeanable,
manageable.

I see the desperation in your eyes as you say it.
I hear it when you loneliness numbs you 
The silent cry for help
The pitiful cry for help,
as if mine is the only that can save 
from that wretched depth you dug up for yourself.
And I'm to sacrifice all and any light within me
I'm to take away the pain,
lull the tears away.
Reenact some forgotten RnB song.

What do we do with the broken ones?
The ones we're not sure how to fix.

What do we do with the broken dolls,
Running around searching for those with glue.

I'm not sure I can fix you,
I'm not even sure you are mine to fix.

But I'm diseased with hope,
always holding on to the possibility I could.

I'm diseased with the incessant need to try,
To always freaking try.

It troubles me,
and it won't sit still.

uplifting another human being,
There's just something powerful,unearthly about it.
That life is already hard,
but if we were only kinder,softer,
If only  we

"Sought more to understand
than to be understood.
Sought more to pardon
than to be pardoned"

"We are wounded healers"

It doesn't trouble me as much,anymore
Your self-hate,your victims of collateral damage,your restoration
And it's even easier to pick out your kind,
in a crowd
You're not nearly as conspicuous as you think you are
you want them all to be bleed.
All so that you may feel better about your shitty self.

Frankly,
I'm not your Belle,
I have my own spiraling castles in the woods
My own dying roses in glass jars,
and I have my own struggle
 breaking open to the let the light in
And Yellow's never been my colour.

Unlike before 
I'm not sure I have anything for you,
I sit by the sidelines and 
I wish you well and hope on your journeys.
You may stumble on His Grace,for this alone can save you.

Perhaps then,
Then,
I thought
I could possibly love you back to wholeness,
I saw you in a way,I didn't think anyone could.
and maybe in some way I felt as if  you saw my gaps too,
You knew what it felt like to be cripplingly self-aware,to have that crippling introspect
You know what it felt like ,to have your thoughts haunt you
And because of this I felt connected to you.
It was more than some temporary gratification,
than some teen romance.It had nothing even to do with affection.
It was a destined collision course.
Something that would deserve a whole chapter in my life's story.

I wanted to show you that you too,
Could be loved,
with an un-calculated,non-manipulative,selfless love.
That maybe you'd learn to love yourself,and love others.
Maybe that was why I was diseased not because of hope or a relentless spirit.
Diseased in that I always seemed to fall for the broken
the damaged,the blatantly imperfect.
I fell for your scars,the things you hated most about yourself.
I fell for your vulnerability,for your truth.
But I hated the monster you so adamantly believed you were
This distasteful persona you'd fashioned as an invisibility cloak.
Unworthy,unloved.

But you weren't interested in healing,
You'd carry on pulling apart you're scars,
And carving out new wounds,damning any form of restoration
and my patience is no longer what it used to be,
Dimmed,as did my hope for venomous souls.
There's salvation for us all,but it isn't mine to give.

So I'd be a lighthouse,
Radiating light at shore,
aspiring to be a giver of good vibes,of good energy,of hope
Me,the non-white cloth.
Never chasing or dragging the boats to land,as I had before
And I'd sit there stitching and embalming my own scars
and healing,embracing wholeness,peace and happiness
Self-love,and self-growth,submerged in the stuff that counts.


There's a great deal of peace,
to be found in looking at the actions of others towards you
As a manifestation of their relationship with themselves
"Sometimes we are just the collateral damage in someone
else's war against themselves"
-Lauren Eden.
Often.
Because we're such a troubled society
unbothered enough to heal.

So becasuse you are so torn,
And I haven't the proper glue
I am, To be half-loved,
When I am so full.
Full of Grace
full of heart
full of life.

You must be joking.


But then again we are unoriginal,
without the faintest idea of what it is to love and to be loved.
Humor me,
Next time I bring up love
Quote me a sonnet.