A Christmas Wish

Life is a trip, ain't it? The ups and downs, the highs,the lows, the low low low lows. In the midst of my whatever, all I can hope for, all I can pray for, all I can wish for is not my own blessings but yours. Well, what the hell... mine too.

I wish you peace.

I wish you stillness.

I wish you comfort.

I wish you understanding and acceptance. 

I wish you unspeakable joys.

I wish you therapy.

I wish you the laughter of children.

I wish you laughter from your own belly.

I wish you healing. 

I wish you soft touches and open hearts.

I wish you good food.

I wish you pride in your own unquestionable beauty.

I wish you self-love.

I wish you dancing. 

I wish you patience, knowing it's a process, all of it.

I wish you love, not only more than you expected, but more than you ever dreamed possible. Love overflowing to the point it scares you.

Then I wish you more stillness, acceptance of the love. 

I wish you peace, love, blessings and even a miracle or two. 

Because you are worth it.

You, yes you, you deserve it.

From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas and a joyous and bountiful New Year. 

The Farmhouse

The small crack in the window let in enough snow-covered air to cool down the humid kitchen. She had one loaf of bread in the oven and was kneading a second. He built this kitchen just for her. She baked in it every weekend just for him. 

She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear when she heard the front door. He was back with more firewood. More cool air from outside came in with him. He walked into the kitchen, stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She stopped her work, closed her eyes and inhaled him. He smelled like trees and snow and the deepest, darkest nights. 

The farmhouse was a soft yellow on the outside, with a kitchen of the same color. Those were her only requests all those years ago. The rest was up to him. He used a mix of oaks, maples and pines. He included a breakfast nook, a fireplace and a room just for her when she wanted to read. 

Twenty years had passed. Twenty Christmases. Forty birthdays. Fifty-two weekends of escape, even if only for dinner. This place was their own. No children. No friends or relatives. Just the two of them. 

He built it for her and she loved him in it, endlessly.

She put the second loaf in the oven while he hung up his coat. 

A fresh fire was lit and they snuggled in their established places by the fire. 

Her head nuzzled into his chest, in its usual position. She listened to his heartbeat and smelled his sweater that had hints of cedar and smoke. The heartbeat was slower than usual. She knew to treasure it. Knew it wouldn't last forever.

He ran his fingers through her hair. Inhaled its hints of coconut and lavender. He kissed her head, knowing he would not always have that chance. He studied each strand of her hair, wished he could memorize each one. Wished he could imprint each strand into his memory to keep with him until the end. He inhaled her again and pulled her in closer. 

The fire heated their bodies, stilled their minds as they lost themselves in the flames. The smell of fresh bread blended with the burning wood, surrounding them. They let the elements take over their senses, if only for a moment. 

This would be their last night by the fire. Their last trip to the farmhouse. Their last embrace. They held each other and fought to record the moment. To hold it tight and never forget. Each smell. Each sound. Each touch. He'd fight to hold on. She'd fight to never let go, to always remember. 

"I love you."

"Forever."

Black Queen Fools Gold

A remix of something from before...

You wear your black queens like expensive-looking accessories. You take true gold, wrap it in fool, sell it at a discounted price and rap, “Baby please don’t cry. You got to keep your head up”. You keep one by your side, one in your bed, one in your phone, her friend on your mind. You want them tall, you want them thick, you want them stylish but most importantly willing to take that dick.

You want their hair natural as each one of HER coils confirms your contributions to the struggle.  You want their minds open but not too open, you want their mouths shut, you want their souls silenced because the songs they sing do nothing but reveal your hypocrisy. You will tell your black queen why she is magical. You will tell your black queen what makes her beautiful. You will praise any reflection of yourself that you see in her and destroy the rest. You will define her, you will adorn her, you will display her. You will fluff her fro and cloth her skin and paint her lips with sticks of silence. Her mouth is to only open at night. Her mouth is to only open at night.

There will be those rare minds of black queens you cannot ignore. Their brilliance doesn’t ask for permission to speak. You do not make them giggle and coo. You know her britches are too big for you. You know she can out-smart you, out-wit you, out-run you, doesn’t give a shit about you. She sees through your bullshit, refuses to deal with that shit, and shakes her head, praying for whomever decided to sit next to you. These are the women you would never call more than a friend as you refuse to fuck what frightens you. Your ego, your dick, your weakness make sure you stay too steps away, never getting too close to the woman that sees you. Her intellect five times greater than your smarts. Your ego five times greater than her intellect, so she must be ignored, pushed down, deemed angry, dripping in PMS. The threat to the ego must be abolished because we all know niggas are sensitive about their shit.

Am I your black queen when you sing my praises in public only to hand-deliver my quelled self-esteem behind these doors of fake love? Am I your black queen when you fuck me and forget me, when you impregnate me and leave me, when I’ve been treated better by white men?

My black is mine. My pussy is mine, neither available for you to define. I have no desire to participate in the hotep orgy of blanketed ideals that will never truly consider the complexity of my individuality, that cannot see me beyond my brown skin and pink pussy. I have no time for the contradictions of the conscious brothas that will march for me, chant for me, protest in my name but still haven’t learned to respect ME, to love ME, only the idea of me, only the part of me that looks like him. Who can't accept a black woman who doesn't believe in god, who isn't searching for her king, who actually doesn't give a fuck if you text her back or not. Am I supposed to want you? Am I supposed to need you? You, who can see me only as a housewife or a ho? Permitting me to be a slut or a queen with no in between.

I am not your black queen, please remove this crown of thorns. I am not your black ho, please remove this scarlet letter of hypocrisy. I do not need you to teach me how to love myself, respect myself, honor myself, when you clearly aren't equipped for the job your goddamn self. 

I am not Mary, the mother of God or Mary Magdalene, the sinner begging for the black man's pardon. You cannot paint me as a housewife. You cannot paint me as a ho. I've snatched that paintbrush and created a homeowner who fucks whomever she desires regardless of their race, class, sex or gender. My bed does not discriminate like your whack-ass doctrine. 

I am not your queen. I am no daughter of God. I am the daughter of a man named Dick and a woman named Jane. I am perfectly ordinary. I am confident. I am self-conscious. I am happy. I am sad. I deserve respect. I demand respect. I will never stop demanding respect. I am an angry black woman with a pretty, pretty smile. I am just fine without you. 

Don’t call me queen when you don’t take the time to truly learn who the fuck I am.   

When the Giggle Goes

It's one of the first things they notice. 

One of the first traits they complement.

The giggle.

My giggle.  

"Damn girl, that giggle is so cute."

"So adorable."

"Too goddamn adorable."

"You keep giggling like that, gonna mess around and make me want to do things to you."

The higher the pitch, the better.

The more I giggle like an innocent schoolgirl in response to their manly bravado, the harder their dicks get. 

I could stop the giggle.

Never tease them with the sound of voluntary submission, executed with ease and a smile.

But, shit. I'm just as guilty.

Their manly bravado turns me on, makes me coo and wiggle. And when I'm feeling flirtatious, that's the laugh that escapes my lips.

But then it comes. It always comes.

The time when the giggle goes. 

When my cooing is replaced with feminist diatribes of truth and self-respect. 

When the giggle goes and the questions come. 

When the giggle goes and challenge comes.

Pushback comes. 

Opinions come. Opinions that differ from theirs arrive and stay and don't back down. 

That's when they run. Chuck up the deuces and continue on their trek towards the next giggling cutie. 

I let them go.

But those that stay?

Well, that's a different story. 

When my giggle goes and the depth creeps in...

There are certain men that don't run. 

They don't roll their eyes. 

They lay down that male bravado and engage me as an equal, a worthy and welcomed opponent and teammate in the battle of wits.

Well, let's just say that's when the panties drop. 

The giggle goes.

It always goes. 

But for the right ones, the real ones, it's always sure to return.