Toxic.
​
Misapplied.
Relinquished.
Abused.
Unloved.
Fondled.
Neglected.
Pimped.
Uneducated.
Pressured.
Assaulted.
Ill.
Closed.
Sheltered.
Manipulated.
Silenced.
Exposed.
Confident.
Misunderstood.
Occupied.
Esteemed.
Unavailable.
Tossed. From Normality.
Toxic.
Grief.
Good grief.
The intoxicating recollection of the most pivotal experiences,
That looms as a strong stench of hungover pains.
I wonder why everything hurts.
That song, that perfume,
Anything that looked like him, the holidays,
The way she smiled when I called her mama,
Why does happiness feel like pain?
I called it grief, but perhaps it’s a clenched hand.
An excuse to tightly grasp the thin air.
Instead of bravely reaching for something new,
I rather hold on to the nonexistent.
I’m learning that not everything is grief,
the moment wasn’t a pain,
just not able to move forward after the absence of such a treasure.
Afraid that I’ll forget it forever or that nothing will ever be like it.
So, the past only ever feels like a burdened graveyard of haunting recalls
instead of a warm reconnection with enlightening memories.
When will I finally let go?
And not choose people in my life to fill the void,
But for me to fulfill their vessel?
When will I finally let go?
And not blame everything on trust issues,
But allow moving forward to be trusted?
When will I finally let go?
And stop protecting myself from pain,
And happiness?
Good grief.
No man wants me.
Some men want me, but not all men want me.
Some men want me, but not the right men want me.
The wrong men want me.
The wrong men want me, but there are some right men who want me.
The wrong men want me, and I use them to avoid the right men who want me.
I entertain the wrong men who want me, and I fear the right men who want me.
Fine. Some right men want me.
There are some right men who want me, but I don’t find them attractive.
There are some right men who want me, but something is missing.
The right men remind me of the wrong things.
The wrong things remind me of another man.
The right men want me, but I feel guilty that I just didn’t want them.
What do I want.
The wrong men makes me feel shame for finally choosing better,
The right men makes me feel guilty that I am sabotaging better.
I want me to want myself.
I then want myself to be wanted by him.
By you.
I want you to want me.
But you don’t.
No man wants me.
I need a man to respect me.
Respect. You know. You know what it looks like.
Demonstrate it? For what?
You're the man. I need you to respect me.
But--
When did I respect myself?
Do I know what that is?
Was wearing clothes that covered my body the standard?
How about sleeping with him at least after the third date?
Respect is subjective so I think I'm clear, but still--
What does it mean to respect yourself, my dear?
Is it running yourself in the ground for a man that is physically occupied around the town?
Posting the pictures to make him and her jealous,
when it's actually you looking over zealous?
By proving your place in a rented property with obvious neglect,
When did basic self-preservation become the standard of respect?
A instagram quote won't change yours or his patterns,
when true respect isn't what either of you are after.
You gave more energy making someone respect you,
than celebrating who would already would--
but he's just a friend.
Maybe you will allow whatever behavior,
because "being his home" is more in your favor,
than being in your own space of security,
instead of letting the perceptions of others live within you rent free.
So why are so mad at him when his respect isn't shown as desired?
Why disappointed when he fulfilled what we silently required?
Truth is, you disrespected yourself in hopes
that he would respect you enough to fill the void.
I don't want to do the work. I don't want to grow.
I'll make you give me the respect I need, and blame you for no show.
I'll tell you how you have no respect, and how you let her come in between,
when truthfully I never took the time, or accountability,
to learn how to respect me.
Honestly, it was never about respect,
it was about not letting go.
We served the thought of love than serving love.
It must mean a lot to achieve the title and win nothing.
Because in the end, who are we?
Still empty.
It was never, and never will be,
his responsibility,
to respect me enough to fill the void on how I didn't respect me.
I apologize for everything I put you through.
Do—the residue;
This is well overdue.
How could someone else learn to love me,
When I never learned how to love myself?
Surrounded by the nooses dripping
With the lasting breaths of hope.
I grieve, I then release, and I start anew.
This is well overdue.
I grab my pearls rested upon a pig’s snout,
And embrace the disdain aroma of mud.
As my tears trickle down,
It turns discrepancies to cleanliness.
And although now tarnished,
I still wear my pearls with security.
I look high and reminded of my true Savior,
That is no longer in affirmation,
Accommodation,
Fornication,
Imagination,
Inflation,
Bodily Precipitation,
Temptation,
Irritation,
Or Condemnation.
He is love, and love is within me.
So I learned to love the discrepancies,
For love is truth, and truth is freedom.
I found no one to blame but my own,
And I own that no one was to blame.
I find freedom in accepting a series of contexts,
Aligned together to create outcomes,
Outcomes that we must acknowledge,
Accept,
And adventure.
The more we reject our adventures,
The less places we will ever go.
I now walk, run, and fly to new places—
Highest heights, and endless opportunities.
I now see new beginnings,
And roar into the falls of everlasting happenings.
I now can align in truth,
Of who I say I am,
And who I really present to be.
That’s free.
Free in accepting a series of contexts,
Aligned together to create outcomes,
Outcomes that we must acknowledge,
Accept,
And adventure.
The more I reject my adventures,
My acceptance,
My acknowledgement,
My outcomes,
My contexts,
My ownership,
The less days I have to live life.
The residue of birth—a dewy do—
To do what is due to I—
Is to now live.
Own.
Receive.
Believe.
Acknowledge.
Accept.
Adventure.
Be Free.
Ima be the solution.