#blackblogger

You left me to my own devices, and you finally saw what that was…

Affirmation: Black joy is an act of resistance. Therefore, I will continue to smile, to dance, to laugh, to live. I will continue to push beyond all things designed to hold me back. I will continue to fight in the name of freedom and thrive each and every day. I will never give up on myself. I can not lose. I will win.

there’s a kind of orphan

that still has a mother.

she lives.

she has a phone she could pick up.

she just isn’t mine anymore.

we fight and she disappears.

that’s the pattern.

not slammed doors. not screaming.

just — gone.

no answer. no text back.

the silence settles in

like she was never here to begin with.

and i’m left in the after,

holding the whole conversation by myself,

inventing both sides,

asking myself if i imagined it.

i used to chase her into the silence.

i used to apologize for things she did.

i used to make myself smaller

so the disappearing would stop.

now i’m just learning, slowly,

that the disappearing is the message.

she has a way of taking

my favorite people.

not loudly. not on purpose, she’d say.

just — pulling them into her orbit

until they forget my number.

my friends. my father. my son.

one by one, gently, by accident,

until i’m the one standing outside the group photo

wondering when i stopped being in it.

i am building coping mechanisms

the way other women build wedding registries.

deliberate. domestic. one item at a time.

a blanket. a banana. a breath.

a baby on my chest.

a name my grandma gave me

that no one close enough uses anymore.

i didn’t get to have a mother

who taught me how to live without her.

i had to figure that part out

on the floor of a house she left me in,

with a sister who used my name to commit crimes,

and a husband who walks past me to the bathroom.

i call this grief

because i don’t have a better word.

but grief implies an ending,

and she’s still alive,

and i’m still her daughter,

and the phone is still in my hand.

one day at a time, they say.

they don’t tell you

the days don’t get easier.

I lie in bed, the hours blur,

The world outside—a distant stir.

Sheets cling tight with stale regret,

A week gone by, no shower yet.

The mirror’s face, I cannot meet,

Skin greasy, clothes soaked in defeat.

Anxiety hums, a constant hum,

Paralyzed by what I’ve become.

The days all taste the same, so bland,

Ambitions slip like grains of sand.

Apathy wraps me in its chains,

Why try at all when effort drains?

Complacent in this heavy fog,

Each thought a weight, each step a slog.

Dreams dissolve like morning mist,

A life half-lived, too tired to resist.

But still I breathe, though breath feels thin,

A spark remains, buried within.

Perhaps one day, I’ll rise, renew—