It’s death again, and my life, and what I’m to do with it. My long distance relationship and when and how I’ll find out what love is. How long I’ll live. How long my father will live. How things were before I was here. How they will change after. Why I was even born in the first place. Why I am being made to deal with this. Why there isn’t forever. Whether or not there really is anything afterwards. 

It’s 3:47 am and I’m awake thinking about these things, the same way I do any other time I’m awake. 

Fulfillment, success, happiness. Will I be one of the lucky ones who get to have these things? Or will I be one of the sad ones who never figure anything out, spending their whole lives searching for answers only to not find anything at all?

How many more years until I come to any sort of conclusion? 

15 Hours Before Now

Sometimes I remember again.

The thought enters my mind
and I hold on to it
instead of allowing it to pass.

For a second,
maybe three,
time speeds across my eyes.

My heart sinks.
It feels as if someone has tugged hard
on a string attached to it,
the way a truck driver would
sound his horn.

My body follows suit, quickly descending
as if it is being pulled into a well of water,
but just before my nostrils
go beneath the surface

I stop.

I mentally shake my head.
I throw the thought away.
I have to,
otherwise this paralysing fear
will spread through my being.

I release the breath
I had sucked in
three seconds before.

I sit upright.
I take another breath
and release it.

This is unproductive.
It will do me no good.
I will eventually die.
I don’t know when.
I cannot change this.
I will never be able to.

Continue to breathe.
Leave death alone.
It will come in due time.

Do not ask questions.
There is no one to tell you
why you were put here.

For now go home and sleep.
You have a long day tomorrow.


Waves rush
To lap at my shores.
I run, wanting
Not to be eroded –
My hard shell
So long in the making.

I am overtaken;
My airways suddenly
Blocked with grief
And regret.

I search myself
For answers,
A way out;
There is nothing
But paralysing fear.

My feet kick,
My arms flail,
I lash my head
From side to side.
My locks weave around my face.

This is it,
I tell myself.
This is the end
I always knew would come.

My limbs grow tired.
They stop their resistance.
I try again
For one last breath –
There is nothing.
I focus my eyes
On the sun
Far above the surface.
I look
Until I can no longer see.


Here’s to being alive and wondering what part you are supposed to play in the grand scheme of things – if you even do have a part to play, if you will make any impact at all.

Here’s to wondering why you never had a say in this whole being alive thing – why you never got to choose and how it was all just done to you, without your knowledge and without your consent.

Here’s to being scared of what will come afterwards, wishing you had some idea because it’s the not knowing that makes you afraid – not knowing when, not knowing how, not knowing anything at all, except that it is inevitable.


It’s dry – the fish and rice I’m having for lunch. The same way my eyes were last night, even though I begged and begged and summoned and summoned. My tears never made their way out. I was left to face my demons myself, without the aid of my tears to drown them out, or help me float away.

It’s dry – going down my throat. The same way the message of my mother’s death was. I had already known it was coming. There was nothing to be done.

It’s dry – like the air in Jamaica. I wish I could go back there. I wish I was there now.


A short poem I wrote yesterday.

God and Home

I’m going through the 108 drafts I have. I’ve deleted about three so far, some I’ve left as they are. This one I don’t know why I didn’t publish. I wrote it while I was in Jamaica in October after my mother died. It really looks fine. I don’t know why I didn’t publish it.

Let’s get writing shall we?

Firstly I stink. I’m sitting with my legs folded and I need a shower. I thought I wouldn’t be needing one for a while since I didn’t shower early yesterday.

Secondly, I’m home, except I don’t really think so anymore because my mother is not here. I found myself saying that I want to go home a few times recently and I realised that I don’t usually refer to America as home. I started to correct myself, but then I thought maybe I have to call it home now. I thought of Jamaica as home because my mother ¬†was here, and she had always been my home. Always. But now she isn’t anymore. She isn’t anything anymore, just a part of my mind. She’s a memory.

I’m listening to music that is perfect right now. Perfect for my mood, perfect for what I’m writing. Perfect in its sound.

My father should be coming today. He didn’t tell me when, which is strange. Is he not coming today? Is he coming tomorrow? Wouldn’t he have told me what time he was to get here? Damn. K bought a dress for me that doesn’t have sleeves. I didn’t ask daddy to bring anything for me. I’m going to have to buy something. I didn’t want to do that. I can just buy a cheap pair of shoes right? But he’s definitely coming today since B called. He must have spoken to him.

Today is mommy’s wake. Stupid word. She isn’t going to wake up. It’s Friday today. Her wake is going to be on the Sabbath. God probably doesn’t like that. He has many reasons to kill me. Whatever.

I think I love M. Really. He probably loves me more, but I do think I love him. How can I not? Not that I have a lot of others to compare him to, but I think he’s the one. The one? I don’t know, but I don’t want it to be anyone else. I don’t want to spend time getting to know someone else and letting someone else get to know me.

I can smell that dumb blouse M was telling me about. Damn it stinks.

I really wish people would stop asking me how my mother died though. I don’t like repeating it. I’m tired.

T told me about God last night. I thought that was really strange coming from her. She is tattooed, smokes weed, and swears. I don’t think she goes to church either. But she was telling me about nothing being too big or small for God and saying that we can’t do it by ourselves. I didn’t get it. I didn’t think God could be inside a person like that. But He is. She said He made me perfect. M said He isn’t wicked. But I can have an opinion right?

Whatever I think He’s still God.

Life Is Too Short to Not Be Happy

As you may, or may not, know, my mother died last month. She was only 46 years old and had she lived but three days longer, she would have been 47. She wasn’t ill. No one expected her to die. Something just went wrong with her surgery, a surgery she had done several times before.

For some reason I’m not terribly sad or upset about her death. Maybe it’s because I know she was doing well in the last years she was alive. She was making plans for herself and doing something about them. She was living. She was laughing. She was having fun.

I want to emulate my mother and be happy. I want to take her advice and not let anything stress me out, not let people stress me out. I want to do what I have to do and not get bogged down by the negativity that surrounds me. I want to go places.

I’ve never thought of life as something that I had a whole lot of, or that was ahead of me, like it was spread out before me and I could take my time to do whatever I wanted to with it. Especially now that my mother has died, I dislike people telling me that I have my whole life ahead of me, or that I’m young. That means nothing. At any given time and in any of a number of ways, I could die. It could be today. It could be tomorrow. So I want to live my life and be happy.

Life isn’t something that can be rewound and played out again. There are no do overs. I knew this before, but now I want it to be a constant part of my thinking. I only have one. I want to spend it laughing. I want to spend it loving. I want to spend it being happy, because life is too short not to be happy.