3. run

run away.
my strongest instinct, one dwelling in the back of the mind for most of my life. a coward’s term for victory.
my confession: i have always been a runner. an active runner.


the boyfriend i have spent most of the last six years with, following, leading, loving, fighting, cheating, healing, mothering, pulls out a ring, an old one, a small diamond at the apex of two helixed gold bands, places it between us as we sit, 22 and 24, at dinner under dim lighting and square tables eating mid-priced italian. the air smells faintly of canned tomato sauce.
you gon marry me girl?  he smirks in the way he has perfected. it used to be charming; he is handsome, precise goatee on skin the color of butter, perfect white teeth. this smirk repels me now.
my eyes narrow, try to decipher whether he is being serious or not. you can never tell with this one, the one who joked that our 3lb premature daughter currently lying in NICU on a respirator looks like a tiny cute alien, a deflated skin-colored football. the one who stupidly slapped my brother’s swollen, stitched knee two days after osteosarcoma-induced surgery replaced it with metal, laughed before he realized he’d hit the damaged knee, not the good one. wrong knee, fuck! my brother screamed, ordering him out of the room. i cringed into the ground.
why do you always have to play so much? grow up. i say, annoyed. our child is touch and go, each day i await the news that she is doing better, or worse.
i’m not playing. he says, scoots the ring box my way.
in this moment i see us, young and in such dysfunctional love, the kind that invites secret outside lovers inside ever so often, the kind that argues on busy main streets, the kind that involves police and threatened restraining orders and interventions by concerned parents.
no. i say, pile a heap of pasta onto my fork. our daughter doesn’t make it.
in the end, i cry rivers.


i am lying naked on the bed in the room we share watching the ceiling fan turn, a room directly across the hall from his mother’s. body freshly shea-buttered, skin soft, shiny and toned. my hair spreads behind me, fluffed and fro’d into a giant black halo. the photographer with the quiet demeanor and wavy hair stands at the edge of the bed with his Olympus clicking at me, commemorating the admittedly beautiful culmination of daily three mile runs and hair growth vitamins. i barely register this anymore. this is not a photo shoot, this is him doing what he always does: collecting photos of me living life. these photos, i secretly delete hours later. when he has taken what he deems to be enough he climbs onto the bed beside me, plays with the new belly ring sliding this way and that with the rise and fall of my breathing.
what would you say if i asked you to marry me?  love, concern, uncertainty play on his features, invade his usually even voice. then he smiles, broadly, like getting it out was the hard part, and he has just decided it is a good thing. he means it.
i turn my head, look at him propped on one elbow beside me. i suddenly feel naked. i reach for the discarded towel at the edge of the bed.
i thought you never wanted to get married?  i ask. he’s joking, surely.
we have spent hours debating the merits of marriage (me, purely to be contrary) in which he posits that traditional marriage is solely a financial decision, beneficial only for a woman. no matter the fact that we live in his childhood home, across the hall from his mother, to save money; the fact that he is quite literally a genius, but chooses a safe hourly job despite being 6 years my senior.
well, i want to marry you. he says.
i realize what it is, the smell permeating the air between us: fear. the fear of loss motivates men to throw hail marys, one last lob of desperation to anchor you to their future. this particular future includes moving to a home on the same block as his mom, five minutes from his grandmom, five minutes from another aunt. i see many cold michigan winters in this future, my dreams of california living, of london living, of exploring a jet setting writerly life, vanish. i wonder how he ever convinced me to move into this house.
no. i say.
i move out over the next two weekends, he helps me load the truck. i do not cry.


i call him superman. the man with the skin so soft it feels like the flesh of the avocados he eats daily. the brailled superhero abdomen chiseled from intense workouts. we volley looks of love and songs of praise between each other like we are starring in our own romantic comedy. i want to remain ensconced in this bubble, where we write poems to one another and he plays me songs on the piano. the security of now. i travel often, to wherever he is at the moment, wherever work has taken him, visit for a week  at a time while i edit and write for various online entities.
i am calling it a break year to friends. the truth is, aside from this tall, muscled distraction, it is a broken year. school became too much; i walked away. home became too much; i flew away. blogging became too much; i abandoned it. food became too much; i stopped eating.
 i am existing, happily, simply. i know life cannot persist like this, suspended in time, but i am trying to find my pen, write my way out of the calamity.
i do not mention any of this to him. it is embarrassing. the Muze with the “magic pen” is no longer writing. the lifelong healthy athlete is no longer eating. the girl addicted to learning has quit school.
of course we will get married. he says one day in a hotel room in a place with palm trees swaying outside the window. we have loved through many elements: snowstorms in upstate new york, desert land in texas, blankets of humidity in georgia. i don’t keep track of the wheres anymore.
i nod superficially,  knowing it is only a suggestion, not a concrete, proposed plan. nothing to fret over. a week later, he repeats himself, louder, more urgently.
we can get married and you can move here.
he is states away, i am traveling wherever the wind takes me. my mind, my heart still slightly in the grip of someone else from whom i am currently running. the lies begin. when i must be hospitalized for the eating disorder that has taken over most of my life, i lie. blame it on an accident. the visits to his arms become further apart.
if you ended up pregnant, it’d be great. we’ll get married then. 
this spirals me. i remember a tiny infant in NICU, the grief of burying the 3lb life after 45 days. i run then. do not return calls. when i travel to his state, i do not engage. i do not cry.


we are headed east for an epic two week Christmas vacation; his home to my home, traveling with our tiny dog. the brainiac whose bass deep voice still makes me swoon four years later suddenly drops to his knees amid the luggage surrounding us, pulls open a small black box containing a large black diamond. i don’t hear most of the spiel he has prepared. i am stunned.
again, my mind tells me this is a joke. despite, and maybe because of recent conversations (we need to break up or get engaged, something has to happen; we are stagnant), i was deeply convinced we would break up amicably, go about life. surely we would not end up married. relationships end, this is how it goes. three years, five years of fun until the ride ends and we both find something more exciting.
but no. this is real. he is proposing.
my mind prompts me to say yes, realizing i have no reason to say no. also realizing this is my fault, that he didn’t understand the breakup part of those conversations was much more real to me than the engagement. the huge rock slides on my finger. i smile, kiss the chiseled face i have grown accustomed to waking up to.
5am the next morning, full panic sets in. the flee in me kicks up so strong i cannot breathe. i flood the inboxes of my closest friends, fear bubbling over and spilling out as hatred for the giant black diamond i now have to wear around. my mom, in only the way a mom can, calms me, reminds me that this is a great thing, and my ring is beautiful.
when is the wedding?  questions begin to populate my phone and conversations with friends over dinner. how is the planning going?  they ask. just over a year later, the answer is still i don’t know. i fight the strong urge to run when these questions come, to go start anew in some other part of the state, country, world.
i know this is not healthy, this fear i have of having an anchor, of being rooted to one thing. so i put stays in place, people that tell me when i am being irrational, and when i am not. the people that advise no sudden moves, to just think, to breathe. i am grateful for those people, and for my own self-awareness. i’ve accepted that this is just me; and i must look for the signs of run.

2. Rocket Love

this essay is late. i was traveling for work all last week and foolishly thought i’d be able to write while doing so. i was mistaken. thus, there will be two essays posted this week. staying on task. i started writing this a long, long time ago. probably a year ago. glad this challenge is forcing me to finish what i start.

a female Shakespeare of your time
with looks to blow Picasso’s mind
you were the best…

it starts as a seemingly endless, blissful float. …except with a motor. fast and consuming, like you’ve stuffed 12 days of loving, of touching, into 24 hours each day. you laugh at his jokes generously. he gazes at you like you have the sun itself beaming through your eyes, and it swallows him.

he is all in, as they say.

you took me riding on your rocket and gave me a star…

stars are brighter when he is around. earth shifts just a smidgen when she enters the room. you wonder how no one else stops and stares at the marvel who has decided to cast their light on you. little old you, except you are not little when you are with them, you are big and fascinating and funny and sexy and beautiful.

but at  a half a mile from heaven you dropped me back
down to this cold, cold world…

then, this world alters; things change. for one reason or another or no reason at all,  you notice he sits a little further away on the sofa now. there is only a silent response where your quirks used to split her with laughter. when she makes tea in the morning you have to ask if she’s making yours as well, instead of just knowing you have a cup waiting, two teaspoons of honey, a sprig of mint. you are no longer sure that he walk around, open your door. absently, you begin do to it on your own.

the knowing is gone.

the automation of glee has been replaced with uncertainty, with questions you’d never thought you’d have to ask. never thought you’d have to wonder if he really thinks you’re beautiful, if her endless giggles were sincere. they become an alien, made of brick and plaster and impenetrable glass. never breaking, never bending; unyielding. just there, day after day.

they have morphed into unremarkable. into furniture. you are both now just paint on the walls.

you, little old you, are little old you again. small and plain and not at all fascinating; no glow reflecting upon you from their eyes. and you wonder, where does the love go? does it dry up like a raisin in the sun, descendants of deferred dreams? does it float to the amazon where it is divvied out like slices of light pie, given to monkeys and turtles and colorful sweeping birds? where does it go?

you notice a couple in front of you one day, hands interlocked, smiling wistfully at one another like the future ahead of them is utopia.then it hits you. you realize that you used up your love too quickly. sucked it right out of the tank it is kept in for first loves and forever loves and all those in between, and you think cynically that the people who say love is endless must never have had this love, this Rocket Love. that they must never have experienced the heady fuel that torpedoes one directly into outer space without passing go, and holds you right there until you are rapturously suspended, gravity falling away, leaving only the unbearable lightness of being in Love.

But you, nor he, nor anyone, checked the levels; gauged correctly. the potent fuel that rockets you there is never enough to sustain; the fast burning propellant  that ignites hearts and minds just enough to make forever seem real, and then blares the warning: you are out of fuel. this rocket love, this weightless thing that held your spark, has abandoned you midway, no longer willing to push you to elation.

you panic, press eject, balloon upward, hoping you remembered the parachute this time.

1. 52


i’ve gone and done something foolish.

on par with my typical running and leaping, jumping head first into a challenge, then looking down, noticing the height, the potential hard landing, and realizing it’s too late to rewind. flailing or otherwise losing interest, i usually abandon these things.

this time i won’t.

52 essays for 2017. 52 opportunities to reach in this rubbled mind and unearth the beautiful, the ugly, the absurd. to bend friendships to their limit. to make seeming foes of family. to place my depths at the stake for the sake of art.

i joined it for that reason, mostly. i’ve been afraid to write my history. the pages of my memory are pebbled, marred and dinged with people who love me, whom i love, whose rank anger i can already smell, fumes licking up from the very pit of my stomach, at the words that may result. this sticky black feeling is uneasiness, this is fear.

fear of writing the truth, because maybe that truth is just too real to exist out loud. to exist on page where it can be consumed, chewed, spit out as hatred, regurgitated as vile accusations of treason. usually, when this feeling enters, this murky, muddy sinking in the very bottom of my stomach, i put my pen down, i freeze my fingers, navigate to a more palatable tab. i run.

this time i won’t.




i only considered it a myth on the mouths of lonely women

longing for a time when hints of jasmine rose like smoke between their thighs,

and men had reason to worry of their departure.

“they always come back” they said, eyes twinkling with redemption songs.


i laughed, nodded in agreement with a lying nod.

and now.

thrown, cast, leapt, jumped, dumped, disappeared– out into the wild

no matter the exit strategy, they’ve started to come back from their landings,

from world travels, from swollen wombs of wives, longing arms of girlfriends,

from business ventures gone wrong, and gone wealth.

debunking my theory of myths

–my inboxes a disjointed script of Ghosts of Hims Past.

“i’ll fly you,” they say. “do you miss me?” they ask. “just lunch?” they bargain.

ulterior motives dripping like drool from hungry wolf fangs.

my head shakes, heart long turned away.

forgotten boomerangs

a strange phenomenon.

no thank you, sirs.

no thank you.

Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer

the evening breeze in New York City has started to carry more of a nip, a subtle but distinct reminder that fall will shortly cover the streets with its colors and take over wardrobes; replacing rompers and gladiator sandals with skinny jeans and tall leather boots, tank tops and free-flying afros with smartly layered sweaters and protective styles.

this summer was surely supposed to be THEE summer. after all the positives and “just wait ’til summer”s thrown around, i was to be in for the treat that was three hot months spent in The City.

and, it mostly was.

NYC sun seems to be more intense, more concentrated than Michigan’s, to my great pleasure. my tan reached deep in the hues and settled at a nice hershey’s bar color. i became more of a New Yorker than i ever thought possible, not batting an eye at topless women strolling across parks, ignoring the arguing couple next door that is the epitome of Hood Love, dropping a dollar into the upturned hats of those that entertained my daily subway ride without even having to look up from the novel that became so innate to carry.

i laid out on blankets along Riverside park and carved dreams into plans while tracing fingers lazily along a surprisingly soft bald head. i discovered talent on talent on talent when cruising through an independent film festival, and bought countless pairs of earrings and necklaces from bargaining street vendors lining 125th. i learned to navigate my way through the city by train, on feet, and on rollerblades, adding a little shape to the bump below my waist in the process.

i experienced more flurries of kisses to nose, to forehead, to lips, than i have ever in life. i attended barbecues and cookouts sponsored by greeks and ivy leaguers and married folks, and friends of friends, and met so many dope people in the process.

i celebrated in the Domican Republic the completion of one year with the person that’s made my time in New York infinitely more memorable. i made so many new friendships and strengthened existing ones (*blows kisses to Latoya, Diana, Mika, Marilyn*). i danced, i laughed, i downed my first shot to a round of cheers.

mostly, it was a good summer. one though, that hasn’t been filled with as many accomplishments as i had planned. i scrapped an entire 200 pages of a book i’ve been working on since moving to NYC was only a desire in the back of my thoughts. i wrote so many short stories that will never see the light of publish. i started three projects with a burst of enthusiasm, and halted them with quick deflation.

twas not all in vain though. i did find a new fairy careermother that i am confident will have my name on some binder enclosing the 300 pages of my blood, sweat, and many tears. i wrote five solid short stories that managed to make it through my impossible self-scrutiny to submit to literary magazines. i embarked on a project with three of the sexiest pens in blogland that i am sure will be one of my best decisions this year.

this month also marks my one year anniversary of actually residing in this big dirty apple. i’ve discovered a lot about myself during this time. i’ve discovered i’m not nearly as money-driven as my educated and upwardly mobile peers seem to be. i’ve realized that being naturally good at things has rendered me unaccustomed to working hard, or working at all really, for anything, and had become a severe handicap that has just recently started to be less plaguing as i finally find myself able to climb over its debilitating hold. i discovered that i am comfortable being out at concerts, at parties, at cookouts … but i am more comfortable being in; behind a book, behind a desk, behind a computer screen, in front of words, in front of friends, in museums, in lounges with a familiar faces. in the city with eight million new faces, i discovered my introvert.

i discovered that writing is not nearly as easy when you have to do it, though necessary and worth it if you want to do it.

i’ve learned that i am able to adapt, to grow, to make a home wherever i may go. i’ve discovered the truth in the phrase “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”

On Finding The Grey

for as long as i can remember, i’ve been a natural rebel.

if there was a rule, cultural or gender standard, i would usually unintentionally contradict it in some way. in elementary, i wanted to run on the boys track team because the girls were too slow for me, so i did. in high school, i was the person frantically writing essays an hour before they were due, only to see a proudly red-markered “A- Excellent Job!” beaming from the top of the page a few days later. the one who decided i was done with high school about five minutes after receiving the big blue envelope that marked my early admission to Spelman (the only school i applied for– a decision which counselors constantly scolded and warned me about for not having a Plan B) in December of my senior year. i went from ranking 3rd in my class to 10th because after that point, much of my supposed-to-be-in-class hours were spent out on the common lawn reading books i’d neglected to properly check out of the library.

for many years i lived by the “just jump” mentality, armed with a unending supply of optimism and the knowledge that the universe usually conspired for things to somehow work out in my favor (see: The Alchemist). later, people chose terms like ‘free spirit” to define what i hadn’t known was an unorthodox way of approaching life.

not least of all, relationships. (more…)

The Curse of the Creative

talent is cheaper than table salt. what separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work. -Stephen King

growing up, my home was an inspired one. positive, creative energy burst through windowsills and slid under door cracks. creativity was abundant in the air we breathed, the energy that kept me and my siblings full of sparkling ideas and grand thoughts. my mother fostered our brilliance through her endless stream of encouraging words and firm position as our number one fan. no matter what idea i had, it was a great one. no matter what skill i wanted to learn, she imagined the possibilities right along with me. she made it very clear that there was absolutely nothing i couldn’t do, achieve and be if i put my mind to it. and we learned not only through her words, but her actions as well. it seemed like no matter what she did, it turned out on the winning side of the coin. whatever creative pursuit she was on at that moment, she went after it with bold, fearless passion. i admired that. and what an impressive list of pursuits she has had:

-when i was five, she sang lead and played the keyboard in an all girl band called Lady Deluxe. i remember being in the basement during their rehearsals and dancing around to their cover of Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody.”  probably the reason it’s still one of my favorite songs to this day. i remember shows downtown at Hart Plaza. i remember music infusing every part of my life. (more…)