What Hateful Sermons Taught Me About Love

I wrote about coming into my identity and coming out to my family by accident, and some of the things that came up for me back in January after listening to Kim Burrell’s sermon that went viral.

Here’s an excerpt:

I don’t believe on a soul level that anybody actually thinks they are better or more lovable because of their gendered embodiment, their desire, or who they date, love, or fuck. I don’t believe any smart person actually believes that alienating entire groups of people or an individual person is a Godly act.

I think that what manifests as homophobia and transphobia is a way to distract people from themselves. It gives them a way to quiet that voice we all have that says we aren’t good enough.

Every time we enforce an inherent hierarchy of worth, that voice gets softer — if only for a moment.


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Dear You (Who Isn’t Ready For Me)

in all of my openings there is a silent space
a width that expands or a come hither
or the larger part of the most honest part of me
and it spells ‘yes’ like lips parting and breath leaving or thighs riding

and that is where I know the most about me
that is where I get bigger and fall over on me
that is the tongue where I taste the most raw
that is where I drip
that is where I will find your whole mouth

there will be a part of me that lifts up and over
as a result of knowing you
there will be a layer of me that widens out and falls down on me
whether you fall in love with me or break my heart or both
there will be a death of me and a birth of me
because I will change drastically as a result of opening up for you
and I am not mad about that

I want so much to spill out for you
I want so much to be wet for you
and you may grab me by the hair
with a forcible gentle because you want it so much too
and I will say ‘baby, grab me by the hair of me. show me you want it badly too.’

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My Non-Verbal learning Disability Wouldn’t Let me Say No

My essay about consent, disability and my orientation, went live on The Establishment this week! This piece discusses the way my Selective Mutism and Non-Verbal Learning Disability intersect and there is discussion of assault.



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Why Are You Afraid of Love?

My essay on inter-generational trauma, emotional labor and femininity/masculinity, and other themes that came up for me after watching Beyoncé’s Lemonade, went live on The Establishment yesterday. This is my first paid piece and I’m very proud of it 😉

You can read it here: http://www.theestablishment.co/2016/05/03/why-are-you-afraid-of-love/

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Longer Around

I’m rounded and warm on the table
a solid bowl for you
in the wake of your flesh leak
I think mostly of your eyes
the outline of the space
between your give and my bite
or the shadow that follows the shape of you
when you’re facing me
now I am out and over with a spoon
ready to be slapped or served to you

I traveled through your clothing
digging through threads and fabrics
to try to taste your wound
thirsty and wide in your pocket
I dreamt about the space between skin and eyes
or the outline of the bones of you
you were the heavy wet part on me
you were the length of time around my body
you were dripping pointy pieces
you were hard to dry

I hear you closer now, solidly
more honestly now
you were ringing in my ear
now I’ve come back down
and here you are an ocean near me
you’re full and you’re the reprise
that I missed both times before
I am fuller too
in the wake of your other face
I am honest too

I wasn’t listening at first
but now I’m tied and knotted
solid around you
I’m not pained by what we both need to learn
I’m the longer version
moving in and out
with all of your fibers
ready to touch your center and wrap up in the length
then round out again for you

I’m not going to lie or make up a story
about what we both wish were different
I’ll be whatever I can be
if you are open for my give
I’ll be lined and separate
I’ll be full circle
if you want
I’ll be careful
I’ll be fluid
I’ll be chorus for you.

*I’m writing a love poem every Friday in February. This is the third one.

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Mirror Limit

Now it’s nearly Valentine’s Day
and I am painted red with your hands
and your splitting chest
soon you will be sliced open and closed back up
maybe you will not budge this time
stuck between my hair and your teeth
loaded like those words you bled
when I first ate your kiss closed

the weather was ripe for running into you this time
I dreamt you offered me a sweater
I dreamt you saw me wider than your jaws
and I fell into your ask
you would probably think my sleep senseless
you have much more to entangle between now and next streetlight
and that corner or your icicles

I wondered how much weight you could lift
or if you could lift me into the air
if your eyes would look different
if you had me up and around your waist
we were not that cold but you had your jacket
I thought about what you look like in glasses
my glass house and your melting lips
I remembered that you never asked

still, I wrote you down with my best hand
the same one that lied twice
after I realized you had dimples
after you’d stopped straightening your hair
it was then I started to see what you looked like
beige and brown colored turnover

and I’m not shy
you look like kiss full of my thighs
you look like beg and I kiss you open
you look like you could flip me over
dangle me red in your mouth
now it is a different ask on a different street
about five blocks away from your original face
this time, you bite and I taste you back open
this time, I say yes.


*I’m posting a poem every Friday in February. This is the second one. Click the link to listen to it.


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Bubble wrap

I could not taste you close, when you first fed
you were brown and beige colored memory
then nearly four years later, we met again
between Fort Greene stares
my rolled up hair
and my fingers numb
I was cold and waiting for you

you pulled my stomach warm for you
and we spread over empty cracks in sidewalk spots
climbing near each other with bated breath
the crowd around was blanket bubble
til the one with red eyes dropped and spit obscenities

I wanted to say I knew before (I always knew)
but we were holding more than distance missed
and that bag of molten memories
you were such a lovely frozen thing
it was almost like we never fed
or you were warm and heavy sex
and I was cold and dotted kiss

I read you down and out that night
and now we’re liquid street sign things
up outside of my own permission
I knew about the transition
on the highest height
before we met

I knew you like Brooklyn before the blankets dropped
I knew I would get stuck in you
before the house was built
or the backyard knew
but you were strong in what you thought you should do
and I couldn’t say “if it’s not too late, I want you too.”
I would rather remember the shape that ice cubes make
I would rather pine for you.

I’ll be posting a love or love-themed poem every Friday in February. This is new/unedited.

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