She sits inside
Her corpse curled up
Left in my body
She sits in my body
Like the closet she died in
She sits inside
Her corpse curled up
Left in my body
She sits in my body
Like the closet she died in
The sun started to set behind the cliff, causing the small city of Mountain’s Shadow to be engulfed in early darkness. Candles slowly started to line the carved out red rock windows of the apartments, the residents slowly leaving them, each of them grasping their own candle to their person.
They were clad in robes made of silk and lace. The colors were rich in reds, blues, golds, deep with purples. The masculine bodies moved behind the feminine bodies.
The masculine people had the hoods of their robes pulled up, the light from their candles showing that their faces were still obscured by a mask that matched the color of their robe. The masks were just as beautiful and as graceful as the robe their body adorned. Shapes, symbols, numbers, drawings, verses, all painted onto the masks in shimmer. They whispered hymns and chants, sang deeply and cried.
The femme people wore their hoods down, showing off the intricate and delicate paints of yellow and orange shimmer that lined their black and brown faces. Their hair stood tall, wasn’t there at all, was there in patches, in braids, swayed like a lazy river, adorned with beads, feathers, precious gems. Their faces shined from the glow of their candle. They sang quietly, sadly, some letting out a yell, full of frustration yet determination.
As the hundreds of figures made their way down the stairs of the stone apartments, the light glow candles gave off could be seen a few miles away. The Couple that spotted the line clasped their hands together and started to pray.
The moon slowly started to rise as the sun continued to set.
As the folk from Mountain’s Shadow made their way to the Couple, their songs and hymns were now as one, their voices in harmony of happiness, of joy. They started to dance. As they crossed the field of bright blue and bright purple flowers, their song got louder and they started to dance together.
The Couple started to cry as they prayed, hearing the song of their neighbors, their family members coming closer to them. They could feel the stomping in the dirt. The mask started to stain. The shimmer started to run. They smiled, their own praying turning into screams and yells of joy and happiness.
The moon and sun were almost even on the horizon by the time the Couple and the folk were finally together. The folks dancing turned into jumping and twists and turns and twirls. The Couple held their hands even tighter, feeling the love and blessing from the folk.
The Couple made their way to a platform made out of wood and clay. The folk followed. The Couple was silent now, watching the hundreds of people in front of them place their candles below them. The folk circled around the platform in dance and song, the wood in the platform catching fire.
The moon and sun were even now and the fire was roaring beneath the Couple, their robes now aflame. The folk was yelling now, stomping their feet in the dirt, clapping their hands together. The Couple was silent, their hands still clasped together, the fire licking at their skin.
At that moment, lightning cracked across the dark orange sky, a loud roar of thunder accompanying it.
The folk screamed and immediately fell to their hands and knees in a bow, silent.
The fire engulfed the Couple in a sudden swift wind. The flames burned away their garments but adorned their bodies like shimmer. Another swift wind pushed through and the fire went out.
The folk slowly raised their heads.
The Couple stood on the platform, naked and bald, their skin glowing from the Kiss of Love.
The folk howled in unison, masks coming off, shimmer running down faces, running up to the platform to praise the joining of their loved ones. The Couple jumped into the arms of the folk, who carried them home, back to Mountain’s Shadow, back to the red rock apartments.
Talkin’ to you niggas is like talking to a brick wall
The shit I’m telling you is going in one ear and out the other
Fuck you, sucka
You jivin’ and I know it and you KNOW I know it
And you ain’t no muthafuckin’ good and I am not bullshittin’!
I see where you comin’ from
And where you goin’
To a dead end
And from there, straight to the Twilight Zone
Trip on THAT
TRIP, Nigga Musician!
Are you having troubles?
Well you’re ALWAYS going to have troubles because you don’t think no one has any sense but you and yo friends
And you and friends
And the white man’s what happened, dig?
Do you wanna be like them, Nigga Musician?
Then straighten your hair, Nigga Musician
We see you, nigga
With your wax mannequin head, Nigga Musician
Head full of straw
Your afro natural and your processed mind
If you had a bigger head
You’d be a bigger damned fool
Perhaps you will attempt to lighten your skin today, Nigga Musician
Anything to be like them, Nigga Musician
You DO wanna be like them, nigga
Don’t you, Nigga Musician?
Join the Army, Nigga Musician!
Be a hero, Nigga Musician
Even with the kitchen window open on this particular gloomy, fall day, the kitchen was still too warm. It was around 2:30 on this day and everything was starting to come together for the dinner party. Things were boiling, baking, being stirred, seasoned and fried. The smell of a good, hearty meal filled the halls of this couple’s lives. But there was another scent that filled the air, one doesn’t notice. Everyone knows what it smells like, but it varies from person to person.
The scent danced around the home, entangling itself with the smell coming from the kitchen. It danced with the sauces, the greens, the fish, the chicken, the cornbread, and cuddled itself snug to the food itself, enhancing the flavor a later time.
Music played from a little speaker on top of the microwave, loud enough to cover the sound of the front door being opened. The person returning home took a big whiff of the food and slowly made their way to the kitchen.
As they peeked into the haven of warmth and decadence, they noticed their partner in a twirl. Moving gracefully through the kitchen, swaying to the music while holding a tray full of uncooked food. They watched their partner praise the heavens and shun the devil as the stirred the fifty-eleven pots on the stove. They watched their partner sing the songs of veteran sirens who have had swindled many a man out of their lives with their voice. They watched—
The embarrassment show up on their face.
“You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour…”
“I managed to get off early…”
The early bird made their way to their cooking lover and kissed their forehead, their cheeks, their nose, ignoring the sweat of hard labor and love. (The scent managed to make its way there, too.)
The shy singer giggled and slowly pushed away from their beau.
“I need to put these in the fridge…”
As the singer made their way to the fridge, the bird reached a hand out to their lover’s waist, holding on tight, moving into their back and burying their face into the other’s neck as the fridge closed.
“Honey, I have still… have so much… t… Mmm..”
The singer groaned, guiding the hands of the bird to the buttons of their shirt. The bird nipped and bit at the neck and ears of their, fingers quickly undoing the buttons like the singer had asked. The bird pulled the shirt off the singer and started biting and licking at their shoulder, enjoying the salty taste of their love.
There was a grunt, the fridge shifted.
The singer was suddenly had their back to the fridge, the bird pressing up against them in a kiss that would make Zeus blush.
Someone whined, tugging on the belt the bird had on.
“Please, oh, please…” the singer breathed into the mouth of the bird, whose evil grin spread like wildfire in the summer at the consent. The bird fumbled with their belt, with their love’s pajama shorts. Their kiss continued, the singer rubbing their hands onto the bird’s head, eyes shut tight, breathing quick and erratic. The bird matched the neediness of the singer with eagerness.
The alarm on the singer’s phone rang loudly, making the bird jump back, pants around their knees. The singer was frozen with shock, standing on their toes one leg, the other leg dangling in the air.
The alarm kept going off for another ten seconds before the singer rushed to their phone and shut it off.
They looked at each other and started laughing.
The singer cleared their throat before having their chin pulled over ever so gently for a kiss.
“I’ll get the table set… I’ll see you after dinner…” the bird whispered onto the singer’s lips before giving their hand a squeeze and disappearing.
If you aren’t up to speed, the story of Pandora’s box is that this woman was given a box (it was a jar, but w/e, not the point!) and it had all the evils in it and when she opened the shit, all the evil flew out except for “Hope”.
Now, people always blame Pandora, because how dare she all that but keep hope hidden!
With the Internet now seen as this amazing thing when just a few decades ago, it was something that stereotype nerds, geeks, businessmen and other eccentric personalities had, it’s weird for people to be upset that those seem people harbor racist tendencies. Those same people, who have access to money for modems and servers, have dominated that area of society for a while now.
To be shocked that the children and maybe even grandchildren of racists from the Civil Rights era were able to get their hands on the Internet so early.
And to even fix your mouth to say that doxxing and outing racists is even the same as Klansmen burning crosses in yards, Nazis placing people onto trains, murdering people all in the name of superiority of white skin is even on the same playing field is disgusting, genocidal apologist talk.
Wave after wave of “ARE MILLENNIALS KILLING OFF–” clickbait posts always want to point out the bullshit that no one cares about, and if it makes old, white housewives mad that they can’t go to Applebee’s for overpriced, watered down drinks, then oh the fuck well. They never seem to bring up that B L A C K millennials are (STILL) doing most of the major heavy lifting for “good” white folks.
With the Internet now making white people bold as fuck by having their full name, birthday, GPS location and work on their social media profiles, the evil that they had hidden so “quietly” online has been opened by Pandora and their Black ass being tired of white fuckery spilling out the box.
White people have… “gifted” Black people of America a box of racism, but want it to stay closed, ignoring the fact that it’s just oozing of white people’s transphobia, racism, classism, medical apartheid, apologist bullshit. To find the “Hope” (AKA “love trumps all!)” that is probably not even in the fucking box would require opening it and dumping all the shit onto the floor. And instead of cleaning up this shitty fuck ass gift, they’ll just blame Black people for even bringing up in the first place.
The gift that is the Internet is a blessing and a curse on “both sides”.
For white people, it is a platform to be racist stalkers who plan Klan and Nazi rallies without hoods but still have the nerve to have armed militias to guard you and kill Black people.
For Black people, it is a platform to reach out to other Black folk across the country and let people know of establishments, towns, and people to avoid because of said white people. It is also a GREAT tool to embarrass said white people and rattle their places of employment.
I am thankful for the Internet because it keeps me sane and from Sinking where I am in my part of America. It has helped me grow into a stronger Black person and has connected me to beautiful Black people in various stages of grief yet again because their white “friends” have shown their true colors (or lack thereof) because of what happened in Charlottesville.
The “Hope” that is the box that was gifted to Black people by white people does not exist and if it does, the evil has made it rot. Throw it away. Or at a white person’s face. Whichever comes first.
A sliver of sunlight came through a crack in the wall the guards call a “window”. This window was the size of a small child’s arm and only let in small gusts of hot air, the smell of horse shit and little drizzles of rain water during the stormy season.
Four or five people sat in the cell that this window called home. Broken, hungry and on the verge of death, the citizens of this cell didn’t know they were getting a fresh body on this particular day. When the door opened, the people barely lifted their head, only seeing if it was time for “breakfast”; a heel of stale bread and one grape as a treat.
There was a bit of mumbled shuffling and protesting before hearing the loud clap of hand to face. The guards tossed a body into the cell, their head hitting the floor rather hard.
When the sunlight made it’s way to the face of the new resident of the cell, they stirred, opening their eyes trying to focus. It took about twenty minutes before they felt comfortable enough to sit up and look around. Startled that this cell wasn’t empty, they scrambled to their feet, stumbling their way to the door.
“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR,” they screamed, banging on the cedar wood as hard as they could. “OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR MY MEN WILL FIND YOU AND KILL YOU. I AM THE POTENTATE OF RIEAL, RELEASE ME AT ONCE!”
They continued to hit the door for another moment before they stumbled back onto the floor, kicking up dust and dirt.
There was a small laugh from the corner. The Potentate stood up and turned their attention to the laughing.
“How DARE you laugh at me! When I get out here, I will–” They were interrupted by a shrill howl, followed by more belly laughing.
“I have been here since you were still in diapers, Potentate… They will never let you out,” the laughing figure whispered from their spot in the cell, their face covered by overgrown, matted hair.
The Potentate huffed and stomped over toward the figure, but stopped a few feet away; the smell was too much for their delicate nose. They obviously weren’t lying about being here for years.
“I refuse to be belittled by some… By some…! By some dirty, old tramp!” The Potentate squeaked out. The figure was shaking with laughter at this point.
“You’re a fool.”
“I am the POTENTATE.”
“AND YOU ARE A FOOL, JUST LIKE YOUR BLOODLINE,” the figure screamed, their head suddenly snapping in the direction of the Potentate, who took several steps back. The other residents huddled together on the other side of the cell. The figure slowly stood up, making the Potentate take more steps back.
“Do you see now, POTENTATE?” The figure bellowed, their dirty clothes suddenly showing deep blues and reds and bright golds in the sun. Within a blink of an eye, the figure was in the Potentate’s face, which was now full of fear and tears. The figure smiled, slowly tilting their head.
“Welcome, my child.”
I stay in my head
Because it’s the only place
Where I’m allowed to be me
I talk to myself
Argue with myself
Get different opinions
White people, seriously, shut the fuck up with that shitty ass comparison. Saying that the lives of black people matter just as much as your white, seasonless, sunburnt, wet dog smelling asses is the same as the fucking KKK is so fucking disingenuous and RACIST.
Me living my black ass life isn’t the same as GROUPS OF WHITE PEOPLE RIDING AROUND ON HORSES AND ANTAGONIZING BLACK PEOPLE BECAUSE THEY ARE BLACK.
Me living my black ass life isn’t the same as GROUPS OF WHITE PEOPLE LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE BECAUSE THEY ARE BLACK.
Me living my black ass life isn’t the same as GROUPS OF WHITE PEOPLE BURNING CROSSES IN BLACK PEOPLE’S YARDS BECAUSE THEY ARE BLACK.
Me living my black ass life is the same as the KKK to YOUR asses because you A U T O M A T I C A L L Y see blackness as violent.
Me living my black ass life is the same the KKK to YOUR asses because you A U T O M A T I C A L L Y see blackness as bad.
You say black people are violent thugs, but then have the nerve to ignore your families confederate flags.
You say racism is over, but the KKK is making stronger pushes because whiteness is afraid of my black life.
Fuck you and your fucking analogy about MY LIFE.
If my black life mattering is the same as the KKK, then YOU are the KKK.
YOU enact emotional and mental violence by gaslighting me by saying that goofy fuck shit.
YOU enact emotional and mental violence by gaslighting me, telling me that my very valid and downright RIGHTEOUS angry to YOUR white supremacy (which you REFUSE to dismantle) is the SAME FUCKING THING as the KKK.
White women, the double edged sword of white supremacy. So “soft” and in need of protecting. And yet, will throw the vitriol of white privilege in the faces of black people when they don’t get their way.
White people can see class privilege and gender privilege all day long, but the moment black people bring up race privilege, white people get angry and abuse us.
But, our lives mattering is the same as the KKK.
Fuck you, white people.
For The Everlasting Fuck
Holy mother of all fucks
God dammit COULD YOU PLEASE
SHUT THE ENTIRE FUCK UP