my friend Lily always says that we accept the love we think we deserve. it's a quote from her favorite book. but i don't think it's quite accurate. in fact, i don't believe it's true at all. I think we accept the love we think we can change. i don't think that a relationship should be based of skepticism oor uncertainty, lack of agreement or trust.  but those things change. they have to, don't they? can i ever love someone fully if i don't trust them? can i ever love somebody if all i'm doing is revisiting their social media page every tume i open the app? do i love them? am i obsessed with them? or am i obsessed with protecting myself?

i accept the love i think i can change because my grandmther once told me that my love can create chaotic fires in people if i really wanted to and that love can do almost anything. and i think that's why i like church, because they teavh you to love with every ounce in your body. they teach you to write loe letters with their voice, and to never hesitate the spilling of your own blood even if that means you can't save them.

my grandmother taught me that love can transform, love can change. love doen't come in decorative bags or in Kay Jewlers wrapping paper. love comes form understanding and the desire to give more than you will ever recieve.

i accept the love i think i can change because maybe, just maybe, that love will love me in return.

We are in a locomotive television.
Our head is heavy of the phosphors.
Glitch spills on our tongue.
Vases are going off the rails, blue cells, sick berries.
Endlessly in speed, our hands off the wheel.
Rotten, hulled in our own battling skin,
discordantly beaten throughout our membrane.
Insane, swiped under stumps.
Blackened spew forked our third eye blind.
Hooked to the ***** of pills murmuring us to keep calm.
Dying inside trying, can’t walk in the open
because it is already too late.
Shredded to worn, almost choking in the swarming
dead gore germs from our own mouths.
Our house has become a wolf hole.
Feasting on cold bodies blue,
eating the faces off of the unmindful.
Our feet in the gruel of grey maggots, black cadavers
and soft sad tissues.
We are tricked, taken for a ride whenever we are to transpire tiredness from this horrid immoral reality.
Nutmeg scattered on our nerves.
We are too close to the television, our hair roots are dull.
Tangles sea coral through our head.
Witnessing our own self into the suction to not turn it off.
We are in a locomotive television

who the **** am I?
what the **** do I look like?
where the **** do I fit in?
I say as I'm mindlessly brushing my teeth.  I look at the image in the mirror and ask them, "where did you even come from?"
There is no reply, only an echo of what I think my face is.

where the **** am I going?
how the **** am I going to get there?
what the **** do I even want?
I ask the image. There is no reply, only desperation in its eyes. "Do you even want to be here right now?" I ask the imagine. No answer. But I think yes. I think the image wants to be more than that. I think it wants to be. Simply, be.

I walk back to the mirror. Exist, I tell the reflection. Just exist, I tell myself

I feel so lost and trapped again. every turn is a wrong one
never enough space to breath or understand or talk
it’s upsetting that this is what it comes to sometimes
I need more, I need less, I need something
i feel so out of touch with myself, it’s makes things uncertain
but only for those who count on me to be blind
turn
turn
turn again
it’s always a wrong turn,
maybe it’s more of a circle and we are simply getting dizzy

You look at her like she is the sun to your sky, like everything is clearer when she is around. And she looks at you the same.

That’s okay.

It’s okay because you two are good for each other, you both love each other, and you will both end up so incredibly happy.

And even though that means I probably won’t, that’s okay.
I am so happy that you found your sun, even if it means I will have to get used to living in the dark.

"you're really pretty for a black girl"
I swallow that backhanded complement hard.
I can feel the shards of glass that came with it.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like beauty isn't synonymous with being black.
"you're pretty for a black girl" feels like passing a test I don't remember signing up for and I should be grateful I passed without preparation.
"you're pretty for a black girl" does not mean you're pretty. that means you're pretty by exception, and not because you just are.
   and that's not a compliment.
"you're pretty for a black girl" I hear them say it for the last time.
I clench the hem of my shirt , look them straight in the eye and say without missing a beat, "No. I'm just pretty."