She lost sanity, each time he touched her

The look on her face. Anger was not lonely there, . . . with it, stood understanding.
She didnt like my words, but she understood. Like a dog that barks to protect home, you hate the noise though you know what its for.

The look on her face. Then she said it again.

"Yes, I know he is my father. But I wish, she'd divorce him"

It all sounded strange to me. Sounded like a bittersweet feeling, without the sweet.
What would make a child want her parents parted?

She went on,
", though it would mean I would not have been born, I wish she had not married him."
And I almost responded to remind her that she would not have existed, but she didnt seem to mind.
She was a child. She spoke like a child.
I knew this. I felt the need to guide her thoughts. Help her understand; it doesnt matter what her position should be.
She should advocate and yearn for the unity of her parents, regardless how much of a bad husband he was to her mother.

"She has keloid marks on her back. Numerous, " halfway thorough tears, ", but the physical marks, are nothing compared to the emotional ones. Keloids can be covered. Her soul, cannot. You should see the way she speaks, though it is in anger, she sounds like she still wants him, "

Oh chile!

", such a strength in her sanity, but she lost sane each time he hurt her, I wish she was wdowed. He is my father, yeah I know. But she, is my mother."

I got it.

You know how they say that Jesus died for us all?
This child was willing to sacrifice it all. For one. She'd rather her mother was painfree and strong, than she had been born and her mother hurt.

I looked up to see her gaze on mine. She released her tears. No more words were spoken. I dared not attempt to convince her. Pity filled me, as she gently wiped her cheeks dry, forced a smile through red eyes, and walked out of the room.

I heard her flipflops flopping on her heels halfway down the hall,, she left me sitting there, to ponder it all.

Me, masculine.

I’d like to,
s*e*x the days out of you
Talk for hours, just to see where we’d stop
Test your boundaries,, where do you end?
What makes you quit? When do you halt?

Like a rainbow has no visible end, they say,
Pray tell me, you,
Mister, where lies your pot of gold?

Or is this it?
As I delve a little further
Talk about my forbidden stance on the natives and the slaves

And you read me, reread me
Or maybe you simply are me
In a masculine form
Or something.

You know how they say that the creator made two of each?
You just might be me, masculine.

And you read me, repeat what my mind was thinking,
Startled me as you said it
“Yeah but really, are the natives being reimbursed?”
And that started us off on something,
Off on some tangent
So much so that we forgot what we were saying
So much so that our words ceased,
We simply acted.

No one dared care about the natives
For a moment, the natives can wonder about themselves, can they not?
They can go beat drums and pow wow to the gods of their lands, say a prayer maybe; for the grass to grow.
And the slaves? Well, ye slaves passed, this is for you!
You wanted unity? Freedom was it? This is it; celebrated.

As our words made feelings
And feelings made touches
And you know what touches can do
As I do what I’d like to do
, s*e*x the days out of you.

But then there are weeks, months, years,
And eternity left in there,
We just cant seem to unravel this tangle well enough to get an absolute understanding
Curiosity kills the cat but we are no felines
So pray tell me you,
Mister, where lies our threshold?
What exactly, are we made of?
When I claw till I reach your core,
What, will I find?

Curiosity kills the cat they say;
But us? we are humans.
Curiosity, fuels this.
It IS why am here so pray tell, me-masculine;
what is the treasure that lies within your core?

Who is to say you'd be a loser too?

Birds of the same feathers they say,
But who is to say that you’d have a teeny weeny too?

Same rainbow, different day; I woudnt get so excited if I was you.
Dont you wonder why I stay far from the circle?
How on earth did you even manage to find me?
Shoo!

But hey!!! Who is to say you’d be a loser too?
You speak similar to he
Life, styled same as the person he claimed to be
And who is to say that I ever knew him?
Spoke so many lies, the truth became it.

I’d rather start with the breakup now before we startup
Start calling up your number NOW so you wont pick up
Checking up on my phone to see if you finally woke up
I’d grab a bag of Kleenex for the tears of
“WTF and to think that he wasn’t even hot to begin with!” but,
Hey! Who is to say you’d go missing too?

Black History

It is now.
This moment, this present time as I type this. Black history.

Is.

Me heading off to school or not... my grannie a bethroed child.
It is our black history. Grannie being a light skinned butcher & meat seller who gave birth to that child who later graduated and became a mother of 5 and jumped ship... for a better life for me. A dark skinned lanky me.
It is my grandfather loving for love and squashing boundaries for what is to be. It is black history he made, unbeknownst to him.

Black history is. Me.
Black history, is the movement away from everything I was, towards everything that is, and in some cases, stagnance.
Black history, is maintaining the status quo.
It is what that lady is doing rocking that weave and the other not... it just is us.
Black history, is love, and lack there of; for you and yours.
Black history, is that fist that you held up as another desires to blend in this melting pot.

"Why do we praise ourselves as blacks w it would only encourage segregation? Isnt segregation only going to darken the lines between us and promote ethnocentrism and hate?"
Black history are these questions.
Black history is everything.
It is the process of writting this, p

It is westernization. It is losing ourselves and rediscovering something else n the process. It is not knowing why we do the things we do and wondering what it is we will become when the damages are done. It is the anticipation., and hope for an end to change YET Black history IS change and whatever inspired the process.

Wondering and questioning things. Black history is the result of Nina Simone's songs' impacts on my soul as I listen to her sing...
"Sophisticated lady, I know... you miss the love you lost long ago, and when nobody is near, you cry".

Black history is the several numerous bits of diverged fights we fight... all in the name of self love.
The story of my people... from the ones unknown to Mrs Tubman and the ones that helped her get known.
The story tellers.
The story of my people. From the heros to the zeros and the significance of the zeros in helping to measure our heroes.

My people have lost alot. But see? Even that is black history.
Black history is me. And the path that was paved to make me.
It is every hit that was sustained, every lynch, every slave, every man that was not strong enough to make the trade and... it is every hate. It is every wrong judgement that man allowed to pass. It is segregation and unity.

Black history is knowing better, yet feeling lost to the system and living your life to be part of a process so that your offsprings can someday, maybe, hopefully live a little better so that their offsprings can finally eventually self actualize. Black history!
This moment. Me. My love for it and lack of it. Black history, is this.