Pisces Rising (Poem)

He loves me in theory

Expressed repressed passions for entrance within me

I mirror his desires in the base of my spine

where my skin calls out for the gold that’s been refined

I imagine it sits in his fingertips

I’m sure it lies dormant on his lips

But chaos seeps in from the destiny sealed

I could play in his storm

But it wouldn’t be real

Photography as Soul Food

I do apologize. I’ve been MIA…and it’s because I have been completely indulged in photography as a new creative outlet. Do pardon me, and all of my joy…wish me luck on this journey. I will create a tag for photography for those who care to tag along..if it starts consuming my blog in it’s entirety I’ll create a separate one for photography.

Shot this in a small shop in Chinatown, in downtown DC. In that moment for me, they were everything right in the world. Love, color, and acceptance, holding hands on a crowded display table. This shot has me thinking about doing a series called shelf narratives. I suppose we will see.

Happy Blogging!

A Letter

Dear Crazy Lady,

       You don’t have to worry. I know you have a tendency to do that when the threat of love, conflict, disappointment, or disapproval work their way into your life. But don’t fret. I have been here since the very beginning. I watched you beg for love, friendship, and acceptance. I watched you express yourself through various channels. I watched you cry and fight for visibility. I watched you put in conscious effort over time to be a better woman, mother, sister and friend. I know better than anyone the fear that you live with. This consuming idea that without love from outside sources, that your life will be barren, and you’ll be miserable. Do not allow yourself to internalize this idea. As its complete bullshit. Continue reading

A Moving Love..

He houses love in it’s most authentic state…giving all of himself consistently. Sometimes I wonder how he never manages to run out of “self” to give. I always believed that productive love needs to be fed it’s own energy by another source in order to survive. I know I don’t replenish him the way he must need to be replenished, as my love is a moving love. His love is stagnant. Sitting comfortably in his core… Ever present, unmoved and unchanging. I am often overwhelmed by it.

Continue reading

I’m A Cup


Lets get into me

Because without us I am empty

Ceramic tea cup


An accident waiting to draw blood

From lips

Meet me in the dark

in my deepest dark

cold and shadowed

I will wait for you

To come into me

Because without us I am empty

Make me canteen

Life saver

In heat

Bring water to my darkness

In the deepest dark

Cold and shadowed

I will wait for you

To come into me

Because without us I am empty


Interracial Relationships: The art of Forgetting/Remembering our Colors

The first time we stood in front of a mirror I didn’t believe our reflection. We stood naked. He wrapped his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. He watched me watch us. I began to notice just how different we were. On a regular day I identify as a woman. But in that mirror, I was night leaning its back on the sun. His hair like silk waved and curled in the morning sun-rays shining through the window. My mane coiled and locked in last night’s heat and sweat. He was sculpted golden and strong. I was brown and shaped like a mother. His chest was made in the gym. My breasts were designed by my son, who depended on them for life a few years prior. His soul was bustling city. My soul was meadow and rivers. I asked him if we “looked right” to him. He told me he thought so. No hesitation. He seemed confused that I’d even thought to ask. This was the first time I noticed that he and I were different colors. We were shaded differently on countless levels. What was looking back at me in the mirror? Was this balance? Wasn’t balance supposed to be a good thing? I didn’t know what to make of it…because what I wanted to receive as balance in our reflection came off like a smack in the ass on a crowded bus in a town I had never been to. Just like that. The man who spent the whole night talking to me about the dance between galaxies, speaking my soul’s language and shit, was now someone I couldn’t remember connecting with. The man I spent the whole night prior with on the docks at the harbor became foreign land. Was I a product of mental conditioning? Yes…yes I was.  Continue reading