We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Backless. Spineless structures.
Faceless fathers.
And miracle mothers.

Brown boys teaching brown boys how to be men.
Brown boys teaching brown girls how to be loved.
Loving her like his “main *****”
like his “side chick”
like his lies. Like his lust. Like his leisure.
Like a good ****.
And she lets him.
She has never seen an example of love.
So he loves her. Broken.
And they reproduce.
Broken.
Another brown baby birthed into a broken home.
With a faceless father and a miracle mother.

Women raising boys into boys.
Not men but boys.
Women raising girls into bitter
Girls into ‘*******’
Girls into bisexual
because there’s no man present.

We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Inheriting broken hopes.
Boys inheriting the name of a man he’s never known.
Inheriting personality traits from a man we’ll never know.

We’ll never know white picket fence,
We’ll never know 20 year anniversary
We’ll never know happy home
We’ll never know American dream.

We are the forgotten ones.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
With hand-me-down hopes.
And Mama’s Spit-shined smiles.

They classified us as the broken ones.
I am from a broken home.
But I am not a broken one.
I pick up my pieces, wrote some poems and made peace with it.

What’s broken can be fixed.
Brother. Be a man.
Sister. Be a woman.
Be royal. Be raw. Be real. Be you. Be king. Be queen. Be father. Be mother. Be love. Be trust. Be home. Be hope.
Be there.
Be there.

We are not broken.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
We are rebuilding.
Either lend us a hand or leave us alone.

Falling in love for the first time is less like falling and more like drowning.
It’s knowing how to swim but being so startled that for a split second your brain forgets to relay the message
It’s knowing that you should come up for air but preferring the weightlessness of submersion
It’s the staying under until your chest expands so far that it burns,
The first love is the willingness to offer him the last oxygen in your lungs and trusting him not to take it…
But he does.

It’s the moment when your body needs to inhale…
It’s the massive intake of air once you resurface.
It’s being lightheaded and dizzy from almost drowning
But knowing you’d do it all again, if he asked you to.

It’s being insane…
and not minding.

Maybe we should stay friends,
Because falling isn’t safe
And I’ve never been the type to check for a safety net,
And I’ve never been the girl to wear a helmet, or knee pads, or elbow pads…
Or any safety gear, for that matter.

How you think I got all these scars, anyway?
It wasn’t ‘cause I was careless.
It’s ‘cause people make you fall for them—
With no intention of catching you

They say things like “Don’t worry” or “You got it” or “I.Got.You”
Things that make the concrete seem not as hard,
The fall not as far,
The heights not as high,
The risks seem more than worth it.

They say “I got you” but they never actually have you.

Maybe we should stay friends
Because falling isn’t safe.
And if we’re being honest—I’m **** scared of heights—and I have really ****** ankles AND not an athletic bone in my body—
So I’d fall before ever landing on my feet.

Can I count on you to catch me?—

Should I count on you to catch me?

Falling for You is something I know I shouldn’t do.
Blame it on my youth—or my naivety—or simply the fact that I’m a hopeless(ful) romantic…
But I’m actually considering it.

And dare I say it—
But **** the concrete just doesn’t seem like it’s that hard when I’m with you.

BUT, maybe we should stay JUST friends,
Because falling isn’t safe—
And I never want to have to write our break-up poem.
And I never want the sound of your name in my mouth to taste bitter.
And I never want all of our friends to have to choose me over you.

Maybe we should stay friends,
Because falling isn’t safe.
And I don’t need any more scars—or my first broken heart.

You see.
Staying friends would be the rational thing to do.
But we’re the generation of the wild youth

And I’ve always been a little be reckless—
And you seem to be somewhat of a renegade,

And dare I say it—but ****
The concrete just doesn’t seem that hard.
The fall not as far,
The heights not as high,
The risks…well you seem worth it.

Can I count of you to catch me?

Should I—count on you to catch me?

Everybody keeps telling me that you never fall in love as deeply as you did the first time.
that the fiery passion will never burn as (fiercly) with number 3 as it did with number one.
That the butterflies in my stomach will no longer take flight at the sight of him
My cheeks will no longer blush that rose pink pigment that he tells me he loves

They say that no one compares to your first love.
That no other hands will hold you quite as right.
Quite as tight.

Your first love, despite what you may think, owns you.

The first person to kiss you inch by inch.
The first person to make you feel like the woman you are.
The first person who touched you with hands like magic,
Leaving your body doing tricks that you didn’t know possible.

They say that after him, the others will only dull in comparison.
They say your first love is the most intense love you’ll ever experience.
That you’ll no longer fall in love, you’ll only stumble in like.

And if you can only really fall in love once, then I plan to do it right the first time.

When the distance becomes too much to bare,
When the phone calls come few and far between,
When your back breaks, followed by your heart,
under the weight of singlehandedly carrying the relationship…
Let go.

When your effort goes unnoticed.
Let go.

When he looks at you but no longer sees you,
Let go.

When you are giving pieces of yourself and only half existing,
Let go.

Untie your heart strings from his shoe strings.
And then double knot his shoe strings together,
So that he can no longer walk over you,
So that he cannot chase after you.
Let go.

Find your smile.
Look for it in the last place you had it,
before him.
Reacquaint yourself with it.
Remove him from the creases around your mouth.
Let go.

When he touches you with hands no longer hot with passion,
Let go.

When he becomes too busy to even bother,
Let go.

When he repeatedly one word responds to your text messages,
Let go.

Olympic, stretch yourself.
Unclench your fists.
Prepare for the main the event.
On your mark,
Get set,
Let GO!