"He whispers your name in his sleep." she mumbled-hicupped, wiping the back of her hand roughly against cheeks stained with misplaced mascara, ***** sloshing in hand. The bottle was rimmed with most of her lipstick now, the parts that you hadn't kissed off in all your negligence earlier.

"Your name- that's what he whisperes" she hissed across the bathroom floor- laden with her *****.

I had excused myself only moments earlier to to get away from you. I had even looked forward to the unoccupied seat that the toilet lid would inevitably offer up. I had even resolved to endure flipping through the aged magazines that people invariably place in their bathroom- to get away from you, that was my plan.

What I had not bargained for, was her-
your wonderwall,
your idealized teenage fantasy breathed into existence,
your walking *******,
your girlfriend-clutching the edge of the bathtub with a wild drunken determination.

Looking at me instead of through me-
as if to figure out how my name could have lay so heavy, body indented between the two of you the first time you breathed my name at night.
It was more than once, this much I knew -
not because of the way your finger tips had once burned my bare back or the way that some of your clothes still smelt of my perfume or the fact that you'd almost moaned my name against her flesh before slipping into ecstacy,
but by the look on her face,
the determined urgency with which she sought resolution at the bottom of that bottle.

“Why. Huh?! Why?...” she asked herself, more than me before kicking off one of her shoes, I watched it clatter against the wall, the last sound before a heavy silence fell between us, interrupted only by the hum of music which now seemed far away.

Why?...
Why would I have the answer to that question?
How was he, or anyone really- supposed to have an answer to that question.
How, how was he supposed to suppress his souls true desire?  
How was he supposed to mold the shape of her body to fit his arms the way I once had,
how was he supposed to learn a new language of love  of love that no longer answered to my name ?
How was he supposed to forget all the letters I’d written him or the fact that she don’t quite call for him at night,
the fact that he doesn’t find himself choking in a face full of hair at 3AM because your subconscious doesn’t crave his body in your sleep. 
How was he supposed to forget all that?
How was he supposed to forget that in spite of that he never once told me he loved me.

I looked towards you, a women I thought I knew and realised now, only one thing-
you could not be angry at him for breathing the past into existence once more, as his sleeping mind mulled over the way my shoes clicked against the tiles we’d picked out together, roller bag following quickly after or the way I’d choked out his name when I read the messages you'd sent him.
You could not be angry at him for exploring his soul in his sleep, a soul that I’d once fully inhabited- that now somehow seemed hollow.
You had no right to be mad at a man who only managed to say 
‘I love you’
to me in his sleep.
You had no right to be angry because the way he loved you suddenly didn’t feel earth-shattering after you noticed the way his smile faltered when I walked into a room.
You cannot be angry at him for breathing the past into the present because we  both know he still carries me around in his spirit,
still carries around my picture- folded now, in his wallet.
We both know that at least it was only my name that lay between the two
of
you.
Unlike
you.
Your sordid body lay between my freshly ironed sheets when I left the apartment for more than two hours.
We both know the evidence of your existence did not inhabit him, it only inhabited the sheets which did not smell quite like his sweat only.

I looked at you now, reflections of us in the mirror. 
Mine, surprisingly poised and exhaled.
I exhaled all the notions I’d had of you, being more beautiful or funny or perhaps more ****** than me.
I exhaled the way I’d clutched myself crying, desperately trying to pull my life together, wishing I’d never read the text you’d sent him. Wishing I could stomach the thought of his arms around me once more. I exhaled all the memories of him and I.
All the wasted thoughts of the two of you because I realised now that you were now both just living in your brokenness.

I realised now it was not my place to tell you any of this.

"Why?" You slurred, lazily throwing the now empty bottle across the room towards me.

Because he used to whisper yours,
is what I had wanted to say instead:

“Probably just a bad dream.”

I turned, leaving the room knowing  I couldn’t bear witness to her pain in earnest. Not in true communion the way women ought to.
I grabbed your arm, more forcefully than I once had when touching you was habit.
Your eyes widened, studying my now unfamiliar face.

" She's in the bathroom now,she needs you" was all I said.
"Oh, umh thanks, hey I jus-" I could feel you were about to backslide, blurt out those late night whisperings which had so upset your girlfriend.
So I cut you off before it all began.

"Please just love her properly"
I hoped my absence had taught you at least that much.

It is a privlige to love someone.
Whether it works or not.
Whether it's reciprocated or not.
It is a devine privlige to inhabit someones soul.
It is a privlige to strike up a conversation between your finger tips and their body.
It is a privlige for their name to be enscipted on your broken heart not because they were worthy but because loving someone is evidence - that you're innately capable of living boldly.
That you are not oblivious to one of the greatest gifts that life has to offer - love.

And my wish is simple.
I hope you learn to love yourself as fiercely as you loved that girl who never deserved you.
I hope you learn to really smile again and I hope one day the sound of your laugh no longer sounds foreign to you.
I hope you're happy.

“Decolonize your mind before you become a new black slave.” He whispered to me before pushing one of his dreads behind his ear and grinning wildly at my perplexed expression. I lowered the straightener and stared at him for a while – I had loved him because of the way he was self-assured, it never faltered and I knew an explanation would follow as I leaned forward, raising an eyebrow, questioning him.
“You know you’re a queen right?” He continued, interrupting my train of thought, while turning off the straightener at the plug point.
“Ja, I know.” I answered blatantly.  
“ Then decolonize your mind.” He shouted before thrusting his hands into the sky and exiting my room. I think he knew I would figure it out for myself because as I stared at the straightener on my desk- it clicked. The statement vibrated in the very depths of my soul and an untapped reserve of energy was suddenly channelled into my aura. I could feel my ancestors, I could hear their cries, I could feel the weight of shackles, I could feel a whip, I could feel resentment, I could feel hatred, I could feel the power of a God who didn’t look like me, I could feel my peoples names that were written out of history books, I could taste blood in my mouth, I could feel blood on the cotton, I could feel what it meant to be black.
It was an epiphany, induced both by drink as well as the stench of my burnt hair. The epiphany spoke to me, reminding me that who I am was holy. That black was undeniably beautiful and not in the clichéd way that I learnt of in history when people averted their eyes, avoiding discomfort presented in an unacknowledged truth. It was in earnest, that I realised that my melanin was paramount to a glorious dynasty that I was privileged enough to be a part of. I would wear my ancestry daily and no longer shy away from the truth of my being. I am sun kissed, I am regal, I am Cleopatra, I am King Shaka, I am the soil and the trees and everything that matters in this universe, I am a closed fist lifted in a rally where mercy has intersected rage, resulting in non-violence.
The only violence that is accepted is that which vehemently opposes the status quo that my people are not good enough. That is what was meant when he told me to decolonize my mind.
“ You will be villianized in your pursuit for emancipation because the margin of melanin present in our people will always render you a slave so choose now what you will subscribe to. “ and I made a decision, standing upon the raw backs of my ancestors- I chose a discarded truth and the truth is this-  I am art. We, are art and art cannot be subjugated or castrated by a close minded agenda, set by people who have never bothered to understand you nor will they ever begin to.
I am  a poem that breathes and speaks and therefor has no choice but to be remembered. I will be etched into the minds of people who would rather forget me. I will be written down in history books next to men who would rather deny my existence.
In that moment, in my epiphany, I began to wade barefoot through my soul. I began to find pieces of myself I didn’t know where lost – and is that not courage in itself? Finding the corpse of your soul, buried beneath a cruel, mercilessly pale agenda?
          
Is speaking the truth not brave?
So I set down the straightener, and began to live.

Why don’t you just lay me down, how about  that?                           
Why don’t you just lay me down on this same back that I’m used to lying on when I day dream about  you at 2AM when you’ve long since forgotten our last conversation or the way our laughter sounds.                                                          ­                                                     How about you let me teach you what love really tastes like- like the flavour of my lower lip caught between your teeth. How about that?                                    
How about you let me call out your name in a way that keeps you present with me before you slip into a well intended ecstacy, how about that?                      
How about you allow me the liberty of breaking the confines of who you believe me to be, a good girl -How about you let me show you that  I’m not just good, that I am great.  

How about I destroy your preconceived notions of me , or better yet let me destroy them between sheets that can be perfumed with the scent of your sweat.  
How about this, How about I kiss you in a way that will teach you to crave my flesh and leave you restless, hungry for my touch once more. How about that?                  

How about you learn that a women can be more than flesh and bones,            
That she can be a metaphysical constellation capable of absorbing you entirely,                                                        ­                                                         That nature is called a mother because she birthed a raw infinity of a women which you could be blessed enough to hold in your arms.                            
That drowning can be beautiful because my love will come for you in ceaseless   waves.                                                           ­                                                  That I am a sacred vessel, that my entire body is holy and with each time you lay your hands upon me you will learn to praise a creator so devine that your soul will sing in your ears in the form of your heartbeat. How about that?

How about I teach you what love means with my body because words cannot adequately express the sentiment that I feel towards you.

How about that?

That’s what I wanted to say.

Instead I said “Yeah sure, I don’t mind” and watched as you walked over to her, kissing her in a way that caused me to choke back tears, cough in a crowded room and pretend that the ***** was to blame and not you.

I love the kind of sadness
That makes me write.


-- Eleanor

"Tell me you want me" the words just sort of slipped out...
and the small chasm of air between your lips and his suddenly felt vast.
The words that had fallen out your mouth suddenly found themselves standing upright , on two feet. Staring him in the face. You watched as his eyebrows knitted, suddenly confronted by your 3AM thoughts for the last few weeks.
The aftermath of your honesty just hung between the two of you...

"Tell me you want me" you whispered again scared to lose him, scared to see him walk away like everyone else. You weren't an eloquent girl, or a girl well versed in getting the guy. You were an honest girl and maybe for once it would count for something.

You see you weren't begging or pining or even pleaing with him to want you..  you just wanted words to bear testament to the truth of what you had experienced with him thus far. And the truth was this - to you he was completely and utterly beautiful and not just because of the way  he could make you laugh or miss him without trying. He was beautiful because when you were with him you felt free to be exactly who you are and isn't that in itself ridiculously profound?. You felt like yourself and when you were comfortable with yourself you became at home and somehow he became a part of that home.

A home which you'd currently struck a match to if he didnt feel the same way
because you weren't good with 21st century dating games.
You weren't good with flirting
but you were good with him.
So in a horribly passionate way you just needed to know that you weren't alone in feeling overwhelmed,  suffocated by desire to just be together.

By now his eyes had glazed over and you knew your legs would only hold you upright for a few moments longer. Pulling away you inhaled the hot air that had become stagnated between the two of you.

But then your arm was grasped and your face was turned by long fingers you knew all too well..

" I want you. " he whispered back and that was enough. It was more than enough to just know that you weren't alone.