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  • 'where excuse & endurance mingle'

    On Monday, September 25, 2017, I wrote down some things.
    I titled them “yesterday” and “today”
    So on that day, my yesterday and today went something like this:

    yesterday:

    He is so intimate with me, kissing me during
    saying
    “Kiss me”

    The a/c in his bedroom hums

    And I like when he smiles at me, during

    Like we are sharing a secret
    an inside joke

    something

    I wish he would stop doing that.
    I hope he doesn’t quit.

    It’s confusing, he’s so contrary.

    My Lyft driver takes an eternity to get me
    and I bite his head off.

    “hey, I’m sorry -- don’t be sad,” Masood says.

    How did he know?

    today:

    I wondered again if I’d come home from work and find Mufasa,

    dead.

    Maybe in the tub.

    I go to the Gap outlet and try on

                                   a red bodysuit

                                   sexy boyfriend jeans

                                  girlfriend jeans

    All 3 items make me feel
    miserable.

    I look in the mirror and
    my eyes are huge, bloodshot

    Heightened by my eyes bare
    except for mascara making
    my lashes look maniacally

    l o n g

    My lipstick not quite right, too
    orange and
    not enough red.

    What the fuck is a “sexy boyfriend” fit, anyway?

    Why do I keep insisting on trying this style on --

    They flatten my ass and make my figure …

    off.

    Everything looks awful and
    I look high

    but I’m not.

    Surely Mufasa isn’t dead in the tub.

    I walk out empty handed,
    feeling like a thief.

    “Have a nice day!” the cashier calls.
    I turn red: “You too!”

    My eyes burn & so does my face.

    It’s too hot for September 25th.

    When I get home, Mufasa is at the door.

    *

    Now it’s 2018 and almost 2019.
    Mufasa is dead,
    but she didn’t die in the tub.
    Instead it was on a cold table
    with her head cradled in my hand
    and a kind vet
    taking her away
    as I sobbed,
    teardrops falling on my Indiana hoodie,
    feeling the loneliest I had felt in
    years.

                    It was lonely like crossing the parking lot to the hospital where my mom was inside dying

                                                like taking my clothes out of M’s dresser for the final time

                                             like getting lost in Covent Garden while in London alone

                                          like

                     like trying on a red bodysuit and unflattering jeans on a too-hot September day because I don’t want to go home and see my dying cat who was now dead

    It was lonely,

    like.

    I didn’t know then what I know now:

    That my heart could break like that
    and that Layla would soon follow
    That my heart could heal like this
    and that a year later

    Yesterday and today

    look entirely different

    and the same

    Because I’m still late meeting Lauren for brunch on a Sunday
    Parking in front of my old apartment,
    almost crossing paths with my past
    but missing him, because
    we vibrate on entirely different
    frequencies now.

    I hope for him,

    still.

    Not for us, because us was a disaster.

    And I’m not sad about it, anymore, really — look,
    Nao sings, “he released me into orbit”
    and it makes me think of him
    and all of that pain we gave each other feels worth
    something, now.

    Because I’m free
    of all of it.

    I picked up my Audre Lorde to find a poem to fit the mood,
    and like usual, today,
    I had forgotten the one I had bookmarked
    some yesterday ago — “Movement Song”

    god, she nails it here:

    “Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
    as the maker of legends
    nor as a trap
    door to the world
    where black and white clericals
    hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
    twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
    and now
    there is someone to speak for them
    moving away from me into tomorrow”

    — there is so much more,
    but you’ll have to find it
    your damn self.

    *

    These days I’m writing down PJ Harvey and Erykah Badu lyrics in my journal
    and writing a shitty poem on a Sunday that I call

    THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE

    because Janet,
    obviously.

    But that was another yesterday.

    today: