I wish I could switch it off, she yelled!
Compelled into confusion like waves of an angry sea flooded her thoughts.
Afterthoughts of being kissed by him and kissing her took front and center priority in her brain.
Like something she never knew she needed until it happened now it’s all she will ever want.
I wish I could switch it off, she yelled!

Many moons later and it is still all she can think about.
He texts and calls and she keeps dropping by despite all the “she is not home” lies she was told by the watchman, then the housekeeper, then the neighbor turned accomplice.
I wish I could switch it off, she yelled!

Many more moons later and she misses them. Nothing seems to be switching off. Suddenly there is an emptiness that was not there before. A gaping hole too big to ignore.
The most amazing thing happened when this emptiness, this vast unending hole was filled with just a phone call and a text both saying “I do not know what is happening to me but I know you are the solution and I do not know how.”

I wish you could switch it on, they both yelled at her.
What you feel is like the moon, a never ending phase.
It keeps changing but always circles back. Turning off something that has already been set in motion is always harder than stopping it before it starts, sometimes you have no control of when it switches on.


You ever get to that final stage of grief, acceptance, that point where you have come to terms with the fact that you will never get closure?

That point where every single memory of them has been forced into a hazy fog that only clears up when you are super drunk.

That point where you have accepted that you are somebody without them. When you’ve rediscovered your hobbies, dislikes and future without them.

That point where you can smile without them being the reason behind it.

That point where you have become numb to them noticing anything you’ve posted online because you are always checking to see if they’ve seen your post.

When you finally drive the last nails into the coffin where you’ve buried all those I love yous they never meant, like a mean joke, that is when they come back and remember that point when they chose their ego over you.

That’s the point you realize you never really went through the seven stages of grief because you got stuck at denial from lack of closure.


Don’t worry, I got it.

That looks heavy, can I help you with that.

Is that a cut?

Are you bleeding!

That looks deep. Let me patch you up, I know how to.

Is that too deep.

What did you do to it

Is that tissue, who broke you?

Looks down at chest. Oh no….

I hadn’t noticed it was broken.

Oh snap, it’s broken real bad.

Damn these fragile hearts.

They are so fragile, you can’t even notice when there’s a heartbreak delivery.

I ordered that months ago and forgot about it.


I turned you into a hash tag because you are not real,

So I will reel in people’s sanity from the obscenity of your fantasies and declare war.

Centuries of scars have piled on your flesh and you became dark from being black

You became a joke and forgot the weight of the color of your skin, it is not as light as snow but it is as heavy as an elephant.

I guess that’s why you are so used to carrying heavy loads.

Mr. Promises, what’s in your bag of gifts this year round? Is it another bag of tricks?

I’m still helping humanity recover from that last trick you pulled of listening to a white black man who said “your people” should be louder not smarter.

And because we are obsessed with escaping reality we listened to you #black Santa and we released louder and more flashy music.

We gave rise to an age of wordless motivational speakers whose words you can predict even if you put them on mute.

We made our young men and women fashion designers to cut more flamboyant fabric for us and more shining jewelry, it all looks like there’s an outbreak of pimps out here.

We forgot who we were because of you #black Santa.

We give out more than we take in, that was your last trick.

Merry Christmas to us,

I guess.


I’m the suffer in silence type, the kind that will keep you guessing if I’m picking up the knife to end your life or cut a slice of pie. Be that as it may, I bet you could find a way, a way to stay. 

I’m a warmer of the Holy Book, my faith obvious upon first look. Needless to say my attention won’t be easy to keep if beyond my soul you do not seek. Be that as it may, I bet there will come a day when you’ll need me to stay. 

Though the sparkle of stars shines through your eyes and the velvet of a rose defines the outline of your lips, though your face so teasingly sizzles through my brain like a hot knife through butter I do not see underneath those layers. My heart I shall keep until the mask you shall peel. Be that as it may, I bet you will find a way, a way for me to stay. 


They put a gun to my head and asked me to choose and I chose you; so now I have a bullet floating around in my chest. 

When I died the flash of my life was memories of you and as I became one with the ground she posted a photo of you. 

Like some sick twist of fate I was given a second chance by the big man and I started to believe in reincarnation because I live another person’s life now. Reborn into a new body, into a new life that I can’t recognize. 

I was yours but you were never mine. I made you my identity and when I chose you and you chose them I died by my own gun. 

For what is a man without identity. 


A writer is just two personalities battling for dominion on paper as each personality seeks the best representation in every piece. 

She painted on an empty canvas, over and over again getting more frustrated with every stroke. She swore to never let it happen again, she swore to protect her with all her might but here they stand a disappointed and hurt pair. Each barring the cross of heart break, each battling to carry the heavier side. 

She pierced the canvas with her paint brush, the rush of anger more thrilling than ever. She asked her why she did that and her response was she could do whatever she wanted. 

“We gave him all of us, you promised me you’d never let him hurt me so why I’m I hear bargaining with death. Again?!”

She ripped the canvas apart, poured a bottle of whiskey into a beer mug and this were her last words:

“you know not who I am yet you are my creator, here’s to you. May you rest in eternal peace”

Beautiful Pain