Bad Connection

I feel myself missing him again. Wanting to see him even though I said I wasn’t sure I loved him anymore.

“OK babe.”

Except the last word doesn’t come out. I don’t allow it to.

“Sure babe. You too.”

I wish I’d never gotten myself into this habit. What was so wrong with calling him by his name?



“You too.”


He doesn’t seem to notice.


“Yes. I can hear you.”

“I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“No. I don’t have anything to say.”

Did I ever have anything to say? I stay on the phone in silence. I’m thankful for the bad connection. I don’t mind the call being lost.

When the phone rings again, and I see his picture, something in me feels disappointment.

Care — Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag ‘Where is all of this going?’ She looked at him as he began to get dressed. Defeated with his lethargic reaction, she took his hand and guided it to her chest. ‘It’s breaking in front of you, do you even care?’ Photographer Unknown

via Care — Eyes + Words

To a Black Child Learning About the Movement in Fifty Years — Radical Faggot

I want you to know they despised us above all else watched us turning every corner even as we slept for years we implored them screamed in agony they told us be patient change takes time they spoke to us like children not the children of bloodfire we were they wielded indifference like a sharpened rock […]

via To a Black Child Learning About the Movement in Fifty Years — Radical Faggot

A Half-promise

I became a fool once again;
Succumbing to someone else’s words,
Knowing that my stance was valid,
Anxiety –
I allowed it
To seep its way into me,
To unfold its tendrils
And make itself at home
In my mind.

My mind.

The one that I half-promised
I would control.
The one I said I wouldn’t allow
To be led or overtaken
By the spirit of others
And their words, or opinions
Voiced only because of
Their lack of consideration –

A lack I should understand
And forgive,
As I too have been,
And continue to be,
Terribly lacking.

But why must I yield?
Why do I always yield
To voices stronger than mine,
Even when those voices are wrong?


I’m starting poems again,
Not finishing them, of course.
I’ve begun again
To build a scattered pile
Of pieces
Of stolen time
And broken thoughts:
Sheets of paper
Parts of an un-gathered
Of my unspoken words
Bravely protruding themselves
Into the world.

I have begun to return
To what is normal to me,
What my life was
Before formal education
Robbed me
Of my time,
Of the ability
To think
At leasure
Instead of on command
With the ever present,
Always impending deadline.

I am starting again
My abandoned relationship
With my words, ideas
And inner self,
Making themselves known
By pouring forth
On paper,
Forming their shape
With ink.