Many would consider…her…greedy

Would see her appetite as…insatiable

She tried desperately not to act on its needs

But Hunger always won out

Gnawing persistently at her mental

Forcing her to act

She could not resist its cravings


Ashamed of her wanton hunger

Jailed by its immense need

When You Love Me

When you love me

Your hands are gentle

Caressing every inch of my body

Your touch is like silk

Smooth all over my skin

When you hate me

Your hands are rough

Pounding my face and body

Your touch is like a hammer blow

Leaving me battered and bruised

When you love me

You’re always sorry

Saying you’ll never hurt me again

And I, like a fool, believe your words

Just to be pummeled again

When you hate me


Back in 2005, I was awakened at 5 in the morning by a child’s voice and the following piece was created. There are issues with it, like the narrator’s knowledge base is more mature than the voice but I cannot throw out this darling because it is a piece that rings true for me. This piece is about me, as a mom, and how I felt my child saw me in 2005. It is a personal piece, a vulnerable piece, an honest piece.

I loves my mama, but her don’t love me back. She try, she try real hard. But her can’t. Her can’t give ‘way somethin’ her don’t have. Maybe her mama never show her, maybe her daddy never show her. I tries to, but her all about her men. Since I was smaller, she always had a man. And if her didn’t have no man, her try real hard to show us love. But she can’t. Eventually her just give up and go back to lookin’ for ‘nother man. But I loves her all the same. She my mama.

I like to watch as her get ready to go out. She don’t wear much makeup, but she do use some. On them days, she stand in front of the mirror, real close, and put the black stuff on her eyes and around her lips. Then she put on lipstick. My mama so pretty. I only wish her knew it. But she don’t know. You can tell. Anyway, you know she finna go out ’cause she cut on the music and begin to sing. I love to smell her perfume, it be so sweet. She be smellin’ so good. I got a good smellin’ mama.

Sometimes I like to sit in the kitchen and watch her cook. She ain’t no expert, but she try. Sometimes she might bake some brownies or some cupcakes. Them be the days when she act like she love us. I like those days the best. If her and her man argue, she might even take us to the park. I like them days, not ’cause they be arguing, but ’cause we got to go to the park. We be bored sittin’ in the house all the time. She be in her room, we be in ours. Sometimes we watch TV and she come in and watch with us. But that’s only if her man gone or she don’t have no man.

My mama get real sad sometimes. I don’t know why. I don’t unnerstand yet. But you can tell when she sad. She just lay in bed all day. She don’t cook, don’t clean. But she only be like that sometimes. The house get too messy with us kids runnin’ round not havin’ nothin’ to do. Her sad days be the worst days. Them be the days I know her loves us. She just can’t function on them days.

Mens treat my mama bad sometimes. She don’t know that we know, but we be knowin’. One day she had a black eye, and then one day she left us here and left with a man. Well, he took her. She came back, but her wasn’t the same. That was the worst time. She just lay in bed and lay in bed all day. But she began to take interest in us. She walk us to school, tell us have a good day. But then, him came back. Him came back and her began ignorin’ us again. He be gone soon, I know.

My mama need to know a man don’t make her. And when he leave, she gone be sad, real sad ’cause her love him. Her love him a lot. But we love her, and if her ain’t got enough love for herself, we love her enough for her. I loves my mama. I loves her a lot, but you know what? My mama gotta learn to love her too.

The Black Woman

Photo by Houcine Ncib on Unsplash

She holds her head high

Towers over

beat-downs from her men

Stands above

put-downs from the media

Lives life

against the grain

with a deck of cards stacked against her

She stands

Arms outstretched and open wide

Hands upturned, fingers splayed

the weight of her people upon her

Still she stands

Fiercely in opposition

against all injustice

Fighting valiantly for

her sons, her daughters

taking the bumps and the bruises

hailed at her by society

with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face

She stands

Paper Dolls

I remember as a young girl I played with paper dolls. I remember looking through the paper doll magazine and admiring the pretty paper clothes and the dolls in the back cover. I remember gingerly punching out the clothes along their perforated edges so as not to rip them. I remember folding the tabs on the paper clothes onto the doll’s body. I loved playing with paper dolls.

In my early twenties, after I became a mother, I remember looking for paper doll magazines. I wanted to share them with my oldest daughter. It was such a fun past-time in my youth that I wanted to share the experience with her. I wanted to teach her how to punch out the clothes, the dolls and dress them. I wanted to watch her use her imagination as she played with them.

I never found any. I guess they stopped making those magazines. Oh but how I longed to share with my little girl the joy of playing with paper dolls.

One Way Ticket: A Gotham Writers’ Prompt

Photo by Ybrayym Esenov on Unsplash


I have a one way ticket to hell.


Maybe because I empathize with Jeffrey Dahmer. He only wanted not to be lonely and in total control of another. That’s what love is supposed to be ain’t it?

Or maybe it’s because I watch too many documentaries on serial killers. Have you seen the Night Stalker series on Netflix? Or maybe it’s because some mornings I begin my day with the news and relish at the destruction of the world. It could even be because I start my mornings off with murder. Or maybe it’s because I am considering joining the Satanic Temple. Who knows? Who really cares? We are all going some place huh?

Maybe hell ain’t all that bad. I don’t know anyone who has been there. Do you? I’ve only seen movies of what someone else’s interpretation of hell is. What if, what if heaven ain’t all that good? Hell, its full of sinners ain’t it. Oh…oh excuse me, REPENTED sinners. It doesn’t mean that the soul is pure.

Maybe I’m just a pessimist and God has no plans to send me anywhere. Maybe I will reside in limbo, that space between good and evil. Hell, I live there already. I can navigate through the imagined torment of hell and the imagined joy of heaven. It ain’t that hard.

It really doesn’t matter where I go because maybe, just maybe, there is no place to go at all.

Clouds on the Horizon: NYC Coalition Writing Prompt

Photo by Roberto Nickson from Pexels

As the sun sets, I can’t keep myself from gazing at the clouds on the horizon. The sun’s fading light paints the sky and the clouds with beautiful shades of pink and purple. I wonder how the sun, which glows orange as it sinks below the horizon, can create such colors on the surrounding clouds and sky.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

There’s a storm coming. I can see the clouds on the horizon. Black angry clouds are rolling in. The wind has picked up. The leaves are screaming as they shake violently in the trees. An ominous tune of the storm to come. The sky darkens and the branches bow to the wind.

Photo by Josh Sorenson from Pexels

**Trigger Warning**

There’s a storm coming. I’ve been walking on eggshells for weeks. I’ve been putting on an act to placate him, to keep the peace but I can feel it brewing. Deep in my bones I know the clouds are on the horizon. They are charging up with electrons. I hope the subsequent explosion won’t be too bad. I’ve been good. I’ve been so good. I haven’t provoked him or complained. I’ve been good. Please…please don’t let him rain down on me hard. Please…please let it just be angry words or name calling. Please no fists. Please no shoves, no black eyes or busted lips. Oh please I pray. I have been good, so good.

The clouds are on the horizon and I have no way of knowing when they will erupt. I have no way of protecting me from the terror to come. Hopefully…hopefully…hopefully he will see how good I’ve been. I pray he remembers how good I’ve been and how much I love him. Oh please I pray. Oh please I beg. Oh please…