Nights Vulnerability...

This one night

Short Story:

I turned into someone else, someone that I hated and envied all at once. I stared at him, knowing he was my undoing, all at once afraid and in love with him. His years of grip on me was tight and strong, but my more logical side breathed for freedom from his chains.

He had told me that I was his, that I belonged to him, that every kiss, be it forced or done in silent surrender, was his branding of me. His touch was like fire now, pain so intense that I wanted more, just to have a feeling of no longer feeling empty. Sometimes, the slighted touch would make me whimper, wanting more, needing more, needing him.

Every night he is like a warrior, he being the sword, and I, his scabbard. No longer do I resist, it has been years since I’ve last resisted, but with stillness in need and thought, comes the realization of freedom, of it being so close in grasp that I can taste it. The more I succumb to him, the more logical side of me knows that what I’m starting to love; him, his grasp of me, my willingness to stay, my acceptance of everything, is wrong and deviant.

So tonight, here I stand, with my own sword in hand; a chefs knife, from under my pillow, I straddle him, moving against him like butter, he awakes, both his desire and his eyes open to me above him; him staring at my slightly mad eyes. I kiss him, putting all my sorrow, all my love, all my years wasted in his silent threats, and take my revenge.

When I remove myself from his final hold on me, his blood dripping down my chest, I look at him. With every beat of my own heart, I remember everything he’s done to me. I wipe his blood from me, and I remember wiping blood from my own wounds, from the tears shed. I dress myself and remember when he would cut away my clothes with knives, or sheer force of will. Finally, I walk out the door, the door that I was pushed though, time and time again, the door that I walked through willingly, holding hands with him.

The air tastes sweet; new. I am still left empty.

One of the movies I love. It would’ve been perfect if Mickey Rooney wasn’t the “Japanese” landlord. How embarrassing and racist.

There was once a very lovely, very frightened girl. She Lived alone except for a nameless cat.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961) // dir. Blake Edwards

Happy feelings

1950s Kitchen

Me right now because I have a case of the jet lags.

This black cat.

Ms. Davis

Betty Davis

Saving this for myself, for my self.

today my anthro professor said something kindof really beautiful:

“you all have a little bit of ‘I want to save the world’ in you, that’s why you’re here, in college. I want you to know that it’s okay if you only save one person, and it’s okay if that person is you”

I have many skills.

Who else would i be?

Sometimes I'm like a spinning top. I fall away; spinning out of control where I eventually pick myself up, only to fall again. But I've learned a valuable lesson being the spinning top. Eventually I'll settle and focus on my surroundings and know that it'll be okay.

Baby got Vocab...

Baby got vocab.

I like big words and I can not lie. You other brothers can't deny, that when a girl walks in with a big ass list and a dictionary in your face, you got sprung.

Pull up a seat, Cuz you know that that girls brain is full. Deep in her head she's thinking bombastic forms of circumlocution.

Oh baby, I wanna study with you and read your notes. My homeboys tried to warn me, but that brain you got, makes me go stuttering.

Ooh, your big brain makes me feel no shame teach me because your not the normal dame.

Baby got vocab.