I am not brave, for if I were I would have broken the heart of my boyfriend long ago. I don’t believe I love him. I say, “don’t believe” instead of simply “don’t” because I am still not brave. I am afraid of the truth and I believe the truth is that I never loved him. 

He picked me up from school one day and when we walked into the house, I saw that our belongings had been packed into boxes. We sat down on two boxes facing each other in the living room. He told me that he hadn’t been able to pay for the house and that we’d have to move. He gave me a few minutes to say good-bye to my closest friend in the neighborhood.

this is the room i slept in / when i fell in love for the first / and last time. where i looked out / the window so long the view / changed.

the wounds of my father I carry / etched forever in my heart— / I do not blame him—for he could not give / what he never received

Spend a morning Googling how to travel with two small children without going crazy. Become frustrated with mommy bloggers who imply that their children sit quietly for the duration of the flight. Give up on Google, and switch to Amazon. Spend a small fortune on mouth-friendly, easily-cleanable toys.

I faced front and looked down. I couldn’t watch as my father inched closer to the vigilant lions. In the front of the car, neither the man nor the woman said a word. They must have felt powerless to contradict this brash foreign executive. I sat terrified, barely breathing, my eyes averted. I couldn’t say a word to the acquaintances, with whom a short time earlier I’d chatted warmly at the watering hole. I glanced only once, just as my father stopped, defenseless in the grass, halfway between the car and the pride

& you are sixteen, not knowing where you / begin, where the world ends, what you mask & / what you have forgotten you ever had to

I hold up this memory / like a piece of blue sea glass, / turning it this way and that / against the light, / trying to discern its meaning. 

The plasma in my vein will grow cold and distant / The hairs on my scalp will caress my cheek once more. / This body is its own memorial service, its own funeral,

I know from when my father died that this gets easier, that it gets better with time. The big boulder of grief gets worn from the river, the daily flow and routines of life, and it loses its jagged edges, the places where it can cut the deepest. But the river never really flows the same way again. The water never moves over certain spots without touching the boulder, without a gentle bumping and bruising, without remembering and reminding. 

We grew apart, sometimes violently, sometimes unwittingly; without my grandparents, there was no sun around which my family could revolve. Not obligated to stay within our orbits, we drifted far-off and away from each other to lead lonelier lives. This was what moved me: the trauma of the present bludgeoning my most precious memories. I had a family then.

In the checkout/ I think you see me / I smile, the kind of smile / you give someone / you once loved / and have to pretend /you never did

I ain't gonna argue with the sun today because it wants to shine; I need rain to wash my pain / away, but I ain't gonna argue. No, not me. I'm just gonna let it be.

after you leave / wine warms our memories, easing my yearning / water flows towards the east / can time be stolen / flowers bloom only once / yet I’ve missed that moment

It is 2021 and I know that the sex offender registry doesn’t make us safer. Statutes of limitations are artificial boundaries on when a survivor can tell their truth. The legal system is designed to protect defendants’ rights, not victims.

The difference with a place that has been abandoned, though, is that there’s usually something to draw your eye: a spot in the wood that is rotting from age and exposure to moisture, wallpaper that is peeling off, a graffiti tag left behind by someone who had previously explored the space, a rat scurrying into the corner of the room. The Backrooms have nothing. Plain walls, no furniture, nothing to distinguish one hallway from another, and no windows.

She has had to apologize for her skin being too consumable & their color blindness / He has not had to apologize for thinking everything seen is up for consumption.

now i know that you were just as damaged as i was. after all, a narcissist is born from abuse / and he abuses in order to receive the love he fears losing.

Never had I worried so much about making a good impression in the old three-dimensional, pre-pandemic world. But I didn’t meet this guy someplace in person with our body language confirming we liked something about each other, signaling the chemistry. No, here I had to take a chance and lay it out in writing as he had, like a pre-meeting informational dump of personal self-descriptions. 

Because that is what we Black people do in America. We do not retaliate, but bow in fearful respect praying, hoping, pleading with God to let us live yet another day. Asking Him to bring peace within our country because we don’t know how much more we can take. This is Momma’s reality.