10 / 30 : she got a donk.

i didnt even plan on writing this poem today but hell.

BLACK MENNNNNNNNNNNNN. ugh!

she got a donk

july.30.2009.

textmessagefrom an oldflame:

11:05PM EST -

"ey, you should get yo titties done. 

then yo chest will be caught up with yo ass. 

just a thought"

when i was ten years old i was

a stick figure with a

donk

'a little package

hanging off my backside'

as my nana used to say

and by the time i was 12

i had to stop wearing leggings to school

the boys would run into their open lockers

peeking around the corner

late to class trying to scope out

my adolescent ass 

it got so bad that my gym coach 

had to pull me aside and suggest

i try some less form fitting fabric

but when i became a cheerleader

hell broke loose at summit parkway middle

none of the boys were watching the game

when i bent over to drink from my water bottle

i was thirsty as hell

and so were they

parched ass little tweens and teens

trying to get a bite of my backside

one day my dad and  i went to the store

i wore a skort, innocent enough

age 13, couldn't even fill an A-cup 

the bag boy dropped the peaches

on the floor because he was too busy

trying to bag me

my dad shook the shit out of him

and on the ride home he told me 

that i will be wearing potato sacks

for the rest of his life

or he will castrate every nigga in a 10 mile radius

he came pretty damn close

by the time i moved to memphis

home of the infamous drive by,

roll down the window, and holla

i was stopping traffic on s. perkins and poplar

rims kept spinnin but cars full of niggas

stopped in midday traffic

asking me whats up with that 'gusha'

a phrase i was not at all familiar with

and i still don't respond to 

the hoes that hated me were jealous

making rumors that i poked it out intentionally

mad at the fact that their shit was sagging

front back side to side

high school was treacherous because

my ass made me a walking advertisement

for a free fuck apparently niggas came at me

at my locker all kind of ways, speaking reckless

sometimes not even talking at all

just pinching my ass when i wasn't looking

running off and slapping their niggas high five

oddly enough my friends were jealous

being objectified was what was good in midtown memphis

and everybody wanted a piece of this ass

literally. sort of.

but i would come home and cry 

stand in the mirror concaving my spine

looking like a chocolate crescent moon

to make my ass less noticeable

that's not the attention that the new girl in town

wanted

and by the time i was 16, 17, 18

it didn't even phase me when i would walk by

and a nigga would drop his girlfriend's hand

trying to check up on it 

and when they called me, they never called to

ask about me

they wanted to speak to my ass

which, unfortunately, can't speak for itself

i'm old enough now to finally

appreciate my backside

when she got a donk comes on in the club

im the first girl on the floor gettin it poppin

and yes, i do it the best

i take this being thick shit seriously

no nigga is going to objectify me without my consent

so i take the texts and the catcalls in stride

these lames have been trying to get a good grip

of my hips

for years

but they always come up

empty handed 

4 / 30 : the porcelain doll.

i feel like i've done a few 30 30s now, but this is by far the hardest to write. even though its day four and im at home not doing ishhhhh. 

the porcelain doll

my deepest fear is never being beautiful in your eyes.
and i feel at this point, that will never happen.
i've stripped myself raw. i am naked. i am here. look. my pores are open and exposed and my lips are parted. suckling each breath in with relish.
i want to be new in your eyes. i'm unwrapped and unraveled and empty. fill me up. make me whole. put a bow on my head, wind me up, and watch me go. i'll dance for you. i'll dance as long as you want me to. as long as you place me on your trophy case and polish every inch of me.
i put my makeup on in the morning and scrub my face clean at night. i lay in my bed in the perfect position to reach your phone when you text me. you always do. i never miss them. you have your own ringtone. my heart skips a beat every time i hear it. i pick up the phone with an undeniable sex appeal as if you could see me. passion oozes from my fingertips as i respond back. and i wont move a pretty little muscle until i hear you vibrate me back to life with a response.
forever is a fraud, so let's just get comfortable tonight.
i take pictures of myself and i send them to you, via the mail. i take them in black in white so that even my flaws look artistically intentional. i love to lick the back of the stamps. a part of me travels the US postal service. so when you get the photos, you get more than you bargained for. how much do stamps cost? do you want to taste?
i wear my sunglasses to sleep sometimes. on purpose. hater blockers. the sun hates on me, every day, around 7 am. it gets old. i'd rather lay in bed and listen to the vibrato of the house shake due to midday traffic. i am a useless disaster and i wake up like i'm a rockstar. 
i read books upside down in my old rocking chair. 
when i'm lonely, i have no problem playing solitaire. which may be the loneliest game of all time. after i win, and all the decks fade into oblivion, it takes me a second to answer the question that pops up in the grey box. Play Again? Play again? if i play again, and i lose, what will become of the game? the cards remain out of order and the game remains unfinished and unorganized. then i let 52 cards down and i can't let that happen on my watch. 
if you loved me, would you really tell me?
or would you let me wither like a dying rose at the end of july in 100 degree weather. starving for a drop of sugar water or anything to sustain me. my pain is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. it turns you on. it makes you feel like you're alive. you'd rather let me die to get your high. you walk away. it's july. im wilting and waiting and you are walking away.
my legs are broken. my strings are sturdy. wind me up and watch me dance. wipe the tears from my lifeless face. i don't want to ruin my makeup. i'm your porcelain doll and im broken. so broken. but you think im more beautiful that way. 
but porcelain doesnt just break. it shatters. like the pigments of a spectrum. i taste like red, and i smell like green. swallow me whole. your insides bleed. the residue will never do. lick your lips and look for more. i'm in pieces on the floor. i'm crying shades of blue. pick up my strings. kiss away the tears. this doll was made for you.


will i ever be beautiful in your eyes?

feelin it

some point today, i dont even remember when, i got a glimpse of myself in a window and i was like, damn.
and im not just being funny or conceited because any one who really knows me knows that im mean self conscious but. today i looked at my reflection and i saw a beautiful, put together, chocolate woman who looked mean confident. it was crazy. it was like.. i cant describe it.
and i know that sounds really random and not a big deal but lately, i know i've been my worst critique. and i know i've been beating myself up and letting others get the best of me but for that moment, i walked across the sarratt promenade and you couldn't tell me nothin. i was feelin it.