I never been one for, small talk.

For the most part, I speak to express my feelings.

[Something that took, recovery and years of therapy]

Why I think I listen, with a compassionate ear.

But what warrants a, turned up mouth or rolling eyes, when one speaks?

Some say they care.

It seems true.

Long enough to have their wants or needs, satisfied.

So, don’t ask me why, when I become silent.

Remember, I spoke.

You didn’t listen.







The Lonely Lesbie

I hoped I would miss you, less and less over time.

It’s been two years.

Two years since I’ve seen you or heard your voice.

I did all I could, to get you out of my system.

It worked, for a bit.

But then, I had a moment.

And I text you.

Desperate, for even one of your, one worded responses.

I think of the good.

The weekend get aways to “The Room”

The road trips.

To Virginia, Pennsylvania. Martha’s Vineyard.

And the, not so good.

Him. Us and him again.

Still, I love you, as much as I did, the first time I met you.

Because, Whatever we were,

You were always, straight with me.

I miss you, immensely.


When does it end?

How long will this be? I miss you so much, I’m finding it difficult, to think about anything but you. I know (among other reasons) why.

I woke up, having had, dreamt about you.

You were a mix of two maybe three people, I found attractive. You of course being,

the primary one.

[we were intimately compatible, from beginning to end]

My dream the reminder, the reason, I can’t focus on anything else.

And why not? We were together,  for fifteen years.

And your birthday just past in January.

Another next month. March.

The other reminder that, someone else I love and miss, is also out of my life.

Something, I never imagined.

All of me hurts, this time of year.

When I love,

I love, All of You.


Fifteen years

I never wanted my fifteen year relationship to end. I would still be in it, had I not start loving myself. I appreciate the benefits of both, a relationship and being single.

It’ll be two years, the sixth of this month. The day I decided to engross myself, into something, that would take my mind off of you.

Two years later, I’m healthier (for the most part) confirming that, that

was the right decision.

But still, I miss you. And love you, as much as I did, the first time I met you.

I think of you, when I see couples.

Or Singles.

And why wouldn’t this be?

It was thirty years ago, that we met.

[You didn’t know it, but it was then that, I had a crush on you]

We would meet again, in fifteen years.

And it wasn’t until today, I realized.

Fifteen years (two years ago) marked the anniversary of our “Involvement.”

And the ending of it.

I regret neither.

I just wish I could stop, thinking about you.

And wanting you.

I know it will take time.

I just hope it doesn’t take

fifteen years!


Tragedies. They’re all over.

From blacks being killed by cops, to rape,

Flint, hurricane Harvey and so on.

What motivates one, to give/support, one cause

over another?

Is it, identifying with the person or situation?

Does Race, play a part?

Is it, The time of year?

I don’t know.

But what I do know is,

I find it difficult to give,

when I haven’t taken care of home.

I find it difficult, to listen to the call to give.

To support people (I don’t know) and causes, in other states and countries,

When we have people, right here, in our own communities,

needing help/support.

Everyone has their reasons.

For me, it’s personal.


















For the first time in my life

For the first time in my life, I feel comfortable in my skin.

All my life I said, I was comfortable, with who I was.

But it wasn’t until this very moment, that I realized,

that I was never, really me.

Rape never really allowed me, to be me.

Rape forced me to hide behind, a masculine facade.

I used to mimic my dads walk. [Atleast I did, in my head]

It forced me into a lifestyle, I don’t know that, I would have chosen.

Rape has effected every part of my life. It’s the source of my PTSD diagnosis, my depression…bipolar.

The reason, at age 12, I attempted suicide, started cutting myself and did more things,

you weren’t supposed to do, before age 21….yep, that too!

I talk about this because I must.

We have to PREVENT this from continuing!

[How many of you, are reading this now, who have been affected in the same way, suffer with mental illness and have had some kind of drug or alcohol addiction, like me?]

I was born to a mentally ill mother, who was born to, a mentally ill mother.

[I don’t know how you get someone, who has mental illness, to get help, if they don’t recognize that they’re ill. My mother and I both sought treatment.

[And how do you protect children, from a parent, with mentals illnesses?]

[I can’t remember the name of the couple, that attended to our wounds during the abuse. But the husband reminded me of Fred, from the, I Love Lucy show. It seems I may have called him, Uncle Paul. And I remember his wife being, Wilma like, from The Flintstones]

I associate a lot of things with, TV, radio characters. Does anybody else?

There was history of alcoholism. On both sides.

Mother, father.

Both mothers, child abusers.

I won’t tell you all the things, that led up to me getting raped.

But, once I was awaken as a child, by a gray haired old man, hovering over me, in his boxers.

Another time, awaken to an adult molesting me.

A year later,  raped.

[be careful, who you choose to live with, when you have children]

I drank and smoked with my mother…..yep, that too!

As a child, I wasn’t verbal. I acted out. I got angry, I walked.

[I wrote down my feelings. How is someone expressing themselves to you?]

Rape, had me not writing, not even the word.

Nobody talks about it.

The media treats it, as a blurp.

Hollywood profits off it.

[Makes me wonder, how many of them picture makers, are rapist]

Nobody talks about it, because it’s a nasty, filthy, inhumane act.

We each had different circumstances.

I recently heard, a Dick Gregory quote,

“Stay woke”

Again, For the first time in my life, I feel feminine and comfortable in my body.

For the first time, in my life, I feel like a woman!

Note: I’m a bit manic. I sometimes change topics. But, will share, when I feel it is important.


Racism: African born, towards black Americans 

I hate to admit it, but I’m racist. Racist against those, who are racist against me.

Just now, another blatant act of slight, disrespect and non acknowledgement.

Tue, April 18th, 2017 1:40pm

Not ten minutes ago, I go into Giants

[It’s a challenge as it is, dealing with mental issues, anxiety,. Fighting the incredibly strong urge, to stay in and isolate. Then this]

I speak to the first person I encountered (My dad taught me this, it’s called manners) who was a black american male (autocorrect, I chose not, to cap that A!) and an employee. He doesn’t speak, he says “Hi baby, to a light skinned person, that was male, that was behind me. This is strange for a few reasons for me, 1. If he only likes and speaks to men. (2) I am often mistaken for male, so why didn’t he speak. And (3) Was he exercising, skin tone racism?

The 2nd person I speak to (another employee of the store) is a African male. He says nothing, crossed in front of me, to present this old white lady, a bouquet of flowers, then wishes her, a happy birthday.

Now, to other people seeing that, they saw “Aw, What a sweet thing, he’s a wonderful person, For doing that”.

But having been slighted [while dealing with my dad’s diagnosis] for the umph time, all I saw was someone that was lining his self up for a future reward.

And that speaking to me, wasn’t beneficial or necessary.

So, why bother?

I haven’t always felt this way.

As a child, I remember my dad having 2 friends, one named, Michael, the other James. I remember, them fondly. My dad liked them, so I liked them. They we’re both from Africa.

It’s them, I think of, everytime

I say, Hello, to the next person,

Who doesn’t look, exactly like me.