BA

Only in death does the world realize, a Black woman’s humanity and even then, it’s must be proven.

Contrary to popular (male) belief, the time to start caring about Black girls and women is not once you have a daughter. That’s goofy. It’s now. It’s always been now. Today. Not the next time one of us is gunned down in our own home.

I been sick about the whole Meg Thee Stallion abuse since the beginning. Why? Because celebrity aside, she’s a Black woman and it’s never been hard for me to look at another Black woman and she her as an extension of myself.

Why is this is so hard for some of y’all to do? News flash: stepping on us to climb the ladder of white proximity, won’t get you no closer to whiteness or the privileges that come with it.

You and I are both still senselessly murdered by police. The difference? Black women flock to the front lines without batting an eye. And the world may at least arrest/try the assailants. When the roles are reversed and a Black woman is killed, abused, assulted: more evidence is always needed.

It was extremely hard to watch Meg’s live about the shooting. For days, she endured being on the receiving end of jokes from people that look like her. Who should be protecting her.

Must a Black woman die to prove her humanity??????

Even then, it would be hard for men (and some women) who are so entrenched in misogynoir to believe that, we too, were human all along.

History isn’t the past. It’s the present. And historically, Black women have been disrespected and discarded—unless in a position of servitude or pleasure.

I say all this to say—believe Black women THE FIRST TIME. Protect us now, ask questions later. Anything else is raggedy.

Something I think about often: the vetting we have to do while dating (or even making friends) is literally life or death. I’ll continue running for the hills the moment any relationship starts looking hotep-ish because if misogyny don’t kill you, it’ll shoot you first and then blame you for it.

And my love, how can I talk about the love that helped me through my loss in past tense? I refuse. Never thought he would find reason to leave too. Thought we was forreal. Thought we was forever. Thought we was more than deceit and betrayal and anger and confusion and breaking up to make up. Thought we was love. I thought there was more make up but this time feels real. Feels like you’ve got no room left for me. Makes me wonder why so much had to happen. Couldn’t love just let us be for a bit longer? Couldn’t love see that we needed each other to get through the sadness? Couldn’t love see that no one was supposed to come between us? Couldn’t love just let us live in bliss for a few more moments even if they weren’t meant to be?

Couldn’t love just let us love?

I wish I had the capacity to love you better. I just haven’t been me in a while. And I wasn’t the me you expected. I should’ve been. I could’ve been. Wish things were different. You’d be my North Star, too. My reason to remember, to celebrate, to dance like no one’s watching, to dream big dreams, to smile with all of my teeth, to dance when I eat, to dance our dance to our song to our beat. To match your beat as if it were my own because you be part of me. To sing a song no one else knows except for us. To travel oceans just to get back to our love. To move mountains on the way to a new version of us. Perch a new life on a new planet just to protect our love. Pluto look good on us. Anything to be in your orbit and out of here, with you. We had plans to make universes out of each other—what happened, love? Earth pleasures got you weak. Got you forgetting all that we was supposed to be. All that we already was. All we could be.

I’ll never forget all the ways I tried to love you and you, me. You tried but maybe this is just the wiring. You for me, only when it feels good. Me for you, only when I feel good.

All the wrong and the right. It wasn’t perfectly but we tried.

Life has a funny way of showing us the signs along the way yet we continue to ignore them all. I’ve spent much of my twenties straddling between “fuck this shit” and working for the life I want. I’ve seen more of the world than I ever truly imagined I would. I’ve loved so many people, platonically and romantically. My whole world felt like it was crumbling so many times and I’m sure it may again feel that way when I come down from this high but right now, I don’t mind being a bit foolish. I never thought I’d find someone as open to evolving as me. Someone so refreshingly honest and committed to growth. Someone not afraid to call me on my bullshit but in the gentlest way as to not shatter my fragile Piscesan heart. There is so much tenderness and care here that I never knew was possible.

The wildest part is my love has been right here all along and for the longest time I thought we were incompatible. In actuality, we had our walls built up to the damn skies for nearly a decade, but finally they came crashing down like levees and the vulnerabilities came pouring in. I’m not even sure who spint the block this time but I’m grateful for the doubling-back. I always thought it was corny when couples claimed to be best friends. I still think some of y’all niggas lying because how you best friends with a misogynist? a homophobe? a jealous, possessor? Anwayyyyy.

Now I know what the girlies mean. I never want to be without him, but I know that if we separate for any reason, we’d forever be connected in spirit. An infinite bond that goes beyond anything we could ever experience in this physical realm. I have an overwhelming feeling that I’d still choose him in every single lifetime, even if not as lovers. I hope that this life and this love only get sweeter and more expansive from here. Although, I’m prepared to meet the sour moments as they come. If I died tomorrow, I’d be so happy that I got to experience a love like this. One that is honest, true, selfless, and free. A love that cocoons me just when the world seems to be caving in. One that feels like summer, year-round.

Used to be ashamed of where I was from 

A land that don’t love me back 

A place plotting on my demise 

After touching the sweet soil of the golden coast 

Red clay to red clay 

I realized the answer to that question

Is more about who I’m from 

with just one glass of wine

don’t feel right 

I wanna look up and meet your eyes 

before blushing and turning away 

Cus when you look at me 

I know you’re seeing me 

deep

And that makes me nervous

shy

like a school girl 

I wanna be free withchu 

Innocent and child-like 

Break bread witchu

Share the last bite witchu

My first child withchu

I wanna forget about the world 

And pretend like it’s your first too 

But I’m scared withchu

No longer of what you might do 

But of what we may never 

except one fleeting moment,

it’d be fine by me

but I hope the stars do as they should

align

and bring you back to me

or me back to you

BAL

I don’t have to do nothing but stay Black and die!

made me wonder is that we colored folks do

be Black until our eyes don’t open no more

we sing and be Black

we feast and be Black

we dance,

jubilee

and be Black

we hip hop,

jazz,

country,

doo-wop,

blues

and be Black

we Sunday dinner and be Black

we collard greens,

mac and cheese,

okra,

candied yams,

chittlins

and be Black

but do we ever know peace and be Black

do I have to have the talk with my son too and be Black

do we ever get to breathe and be Black

cop-free and be Black

if only they really did leave us to just be Black

imagine the world we’d build

didn’t see a single white soul

in my dream last night

that’s how I knew we was free

Black and just be

BAL

where I can go to escape the heavy

of my skin

but I’m never rid

of this stolen tongue

America follows me everywhere I go

and we know bullets were never meant to be outrun

BAL

I didn’t ask my new lover to show me that the fork in my hand was never meant to meet my tongue

nor did I ask of him permission

to consume

cassava leaf

and jollof

With my hands

It just was

I just be

inherently from a land I’ve never touched

Some things can never be undone

African auntie serving plates out of a DC kitchen

All I see is the fish fry’s of my Baltimore youth

Whitling dinners to make a dollar

We been making something of our nothings

BAL

Okra seeds resting

between cornrowed scalps

we braved seas and still never dropped the roots

planted ourselves upon new shores

and watched white men call our crops they own

that’s what happens when you the blueprint and the harvest

bees buzzing across new worlds

cus you the honey

freedom gon’ ring

cus it’s all we’ve ever known

to dance and don’t care who watching

to tell our stories loudly

with full mouths

cus what had happened wuz

to cut up

to laugh ourselves into new realities

to bake the mac and cheeze

to fry the wings hard

to soak the greens

yes, to the old bay, always

no vacancy on earth for the wretched

for the nappy

for the dark

for the Black

freedom gon’ ring

cus it’s was born

right here

between starshine and clay

in these Black bones

BAL

maybe our resistance is different

hers a song

mine poem

both a melody of

strange fruit

BAL

Like grandma’s hands

when they gliding across cast irons

Too hot to touch

But she been burned before

She takes the risk

Because the reward is warm

And sweet,

butter-dipped

And sounds like her granddaughter’s laughter

And she yells “fix my fringes, wash y’all hands and come in here an’ eat.”

So we leave no fringes of the cream rug untouched. We race to wash our ends ‘cus the corn muffins been calling our name but we had to wait for the fish to be fried. And we race to our assigned seat ‘cus Black folks have their seats and you better not sit in it.

We ‘round the table with full plates and empty cups. Drinking too much will make you not want to eat so grandma’s hands only reach for her Brita after our plates come clean.

Before we know it sips turn to

deep belly laughs

laughs

turn to dance

92Q coming through the radio

K-Swift got us moving again

Baltimore club music in our spirits

Friday fish fry on our tounges

The weekend lookin brighter then our weeks been

For 400 years

Little Black hands swinging overhead

Wrinkled yella ones too,

A birthright.

We all deserve to be free

BAL

Things to meditate on for 2021✨

palms, aloe, tulips 

they all die prematurely at my hands 

maybe it’s because I’m busy trying to survive this flesh 

my roots need watering so I don’t have time to tend 

to another garden 

except the one growing at my feet 

perhaps I just want to outlive something

cuz my days in this skin are numbered 

but I still lace it in satin 

and shea butter

because it should at least be glowing 

for the day a cop decides to lodge a gold bullet 

into this brown skin 

and he’ll probably chuckle when his finger pulls back the trigger 

cus you can’t spell slaughter 

without laughter 

a death so beautiful they gon’ think I been preparing for it 

my whole life 

BAL

I’m slinging handwritten poems. Getchu one: https://brionalamback.squarespace.com/poetry-shop