Failure. Part One.

So… I’ve seen this picture circulated around for a while now.
But this time it reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago, and decided to share.

I dedicate this to all the women who carry the little girl they once were… a burden so personal, yet so universal.

All my love:



there’s a little girl living inside this grown woman
hymen torn, kinda like mines
her tantrums are my menstrual cramps.

she sits Indian style at the base of me
bathing in my unshed womb
blocking my cervix with her toes

only she can remember our hurt.

as the keeper of my sorrow
she relinquishes it piece by piece
pushing pain thru my pores with her palms
the surface as white heads
carrying the seed residue of forgotten ejaculations

on good days she jumpropes  with my bowels and naps
because i am busy forgetting about her
belief making that my molestation toxins
didn’t stunt her growth

she yanks at my rib cage every time a penis lay in my vagina
my kidneys… her ear plugs to muffle my orgasmic screams

and to love her… is to fail at everything

she’s too old to pacify.
her terror lay dormant flaring like herpes.
she clings to my chakras for deal life
crying tears that secrete sweat under my arms

do you know what its like to have an inconsolable
seven year old dwelling in the crevices of you?

i drink wine to calm her.


For Phyllis Hyman | #WorldSuicidePreventionDay


Black girls fight for their lives every day… 

we keep breathing even when we’d rather stop because we don’t want to inconvenience those we’d leave behind.

We live because folk might not care that we’re gone.

We refuse to take pills… or slit wrists because the pain may feel too good.

Black girls have been there… staring death in the mirror… but not having time to give their lives away.

’cause if I’m not here to do it… cook it… clean it… love it… who will? 

While we’re living on this earth… our souls are a fist full of sawdust. 

Alive and bound… too strong and too proud to admit… I’d rather not live.