|
Orchestrated fire at the hem of my slip
This burning is masterpiece Savage and sonnet in its soot- Don't touch me because I'll linger in your bones They will smell me all over you My bitter and sweet becoming ghost on your lips Haunting your attempts at relationships Giving other women faults that look like me Why you make altar of my memory? Couldn't even praise-love me when my mouth and spirit held you Ain't you contradiction and hypocritical? Had to feel the frost to appreciate the fire Had to walk to appreciate how I lifted you how I taught you flight in a world heavy with gravity Blood all on the concrete calling and claiming new bodies But you mistreated the shelter and sky in me Now you out there, cold world at yo neck Yearning for savage, sonnet and soot But my slip don't even fit you any more ✍🏿🧠 ➖MYC
0 Comments
 I got this glasshouse of a heart that I put into poems and photographs.
Strangers have watched me break and gather myself with a mirror glued between my fingers no matter how grotesque and brutal the reflection. My heart is Frankenstein's monster. Most days, I'm not sure if I'm Victor or victim. Most nights, I'm animated by some unknown spark that projects this fire, confined like unborn, in my belly. I give things openly that people never asked for, but I don't need their permission to exist. I never said they ʜᴀᴅ to watch. But most people can't walk by a glasshouse without looking in. Even if it's merely to criticize it for being glass in the first place. Anything transparent, broken and beautiful makes them uncomfortable. --Melanie YeYo Carter  Full room and I was movin’ through the crowd with
I ate twice before I came energy I left the worries outside next to old insecurities smokin a blunt so they could get their shit together I was spilling black woman all ova everybody’s space The gutta-walk was sickening Sex appeal and wet on 10 with no outlet worthy enough to get this wet wet this Soul Snatcha this baby-nectar-voodoo shit Until it found safe ghosting on an old lover’s lips Occasionally, full circle occurs unexpectedly And it ain’t always pretty or docile It can brew like quiet before storm in a catacomb of emotion or in a backseat brimming with exposed bodies full of everything except expectations Air full of blood words and torture tactics that sound like “pull my hair and slap my ass… again… again” There are no lies, just skin No “I love yous” because it didn’t work the first time, and, at this point, songs are the only thing in this life worth the repeat And it ain’t that I don’t feel the love anymore- I just know it’s not enough I just know it doesn’t taste the same But, my God, how we can still find each other’s spots in the dark make beautiful orgasms of an unexplained connection I still think our children would have been southern classics with machetes for mouths and sky skin of unmuted melodies addicted to feeling addicted to people and overly passionate about shit like lines and lyrics and love stories that don’t resemble war But, those are just thoughts with no what ifs attached Our possibilities were gutted and eulogized somewhere between the second and third girlfriend you chose that wasn’t me Somewhere in the miscommunication where I was hurt and you were angry and we were both some stubborn ass glassblowers who forgot our Eden and our apple But, we can still taste it Still feel it between our teeth like gravity Reminding us that we messed up the love but we’ve always known how to f’k each other like porn stars Like joy growing through bloody concrete So, we split each other open And I walked away spilling black woman all ova yo shit My gutta-walk was sickening And I held no regrets-- Melanie YeYo Carter  15 minutes. Approximately 15 min. That's how long I've been sitting in front of a blank page attempting to determine the approach I will take while writing about the 8th anniversary of my HIV-positive diagnosis. I'm normally a "sleep in" type of person, but today, I've been awake since 8:30 am. For the first time in years, the arrival of this date didn't keep me from sleeping last night. I wasn't cloaked in trepidation. There was no kryptonite on my chest depleting my super powers or my breathing. Untraditionally, I was peaceful. Yet, this morning, my reality was unavoidable. I, Melanie YeYo Carter, am HIV-positive. I'm my mother and father's daughter. I am HIV-positive. I have a 12-year-old daughter. I am HIV-positive. I have a beautiful woman and fiancé in my life. I am HIV-positive. I am a poet. I am a Spoken Word Artist. I am a college student. I am a best friend. I am a friend. I am a sister. I am an auntie. I am a writer. I am bipolar with PTSD. I am a rape survivor. I am an abuse survivor. I am a black woman. I am a black lesbian. I am HIV-positive. I am... I am... I am alive. Unlike some others, I will not diminish the gravity of my own situation with the carbon copy phrase “HIV/AIDS is not a death sentence anymore”. I understand the medical advancements that have been made towards minimizing the effects of the illness and to improve the quality of life of those living with the illness. This acknowledgment is a reflection of my logic, but the most intricate human parts of me find no comfort in “it’s not a death sentence”. To know that my blood is my enemy is repetitiously unnerving. On the difficult days, if I let it, my mind would convince me that I can feel the disease replicating itself. Each copy of HIV, a blow to the skin that binds it. Occasionally, this thought is so loud that it synchronizes with my heartbeat. During these times, I imagine my white blood cells as Spartans, and HIV is an invasion. Perhaps I deem this 300 analogy fitting because the hero still dies in the end. Perhaps the lesson in this 300 analogy is King Leonidas didn’t allow the possibility of death to deter him. Shit, I’ve always said that I am not waiting to die. Death will have to come find me. I have been living openly and honestly with this illness for 8 years. 8 years of needle sticks and blood and fear and laughter and crying and perseverance and advocacy and determination and mental hospital admissions and memories and letting go and holding on and “fuck forgiveness” and love poems and lesbian-black-girl shenanigans and I feel beautiful and don’t look at me and 2 fist fights because they said “you’re dying slow anyway” and “that’s why you got that shit” and learning that living is more than survival. 8 years later, and I’m doing so many of the things I thought I would never get the opportunity to do. If ever I’m asked what my greatest accomplishment was, my answer will be simple: I lived when life, my past and humanity said I couldn’t. I lived it, and I survived. I survived it, and I lived. Last year, I wrote a list of my thoughts concerning my diagnosis date. I’m going to share them again because they are still extremely relevant. 🔹RANDOM THOUGHTS AT MY 7 YEAR HIV+ MARK IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER🔹 For those of you who took the time to read me, thank you. Today, I will be creating new memories. Today, I will let that shit be glorious.
Melanie YeYo Carter This is a single from my upcoming Spoken Word project titled "Machete Grace". RESPECT AND LOVE. So, I forced myself to live today Every breath pushed out in an unnatural birth of rhythm Each, a calculated approach to survival Each one, stretching out to the universe with conviction Just hoping someone or something would reach back Would help me hold all of this falling apart together Every exhale released an invisible cloud of sorrow around me I was walking enveloped in a storm Flooded Drowned Drenched down to my core, And no one even noticed No one noticed how my smile didn’t reach my eyes That it was merely painted on, and I was Mona Lisa There is an art form in holding your shit together A gentle stroke here, and a hard stroke there And if you angle your strength just right in the light, People will assume your smile comes easy That it is without sorrow Without sacrifice Without scream imprisoned behind it Without self-subjugation They will not see the force nor the effort it takes to do something so natural To inhale exhale To breathe So, today, I forced myself to live Today, I was a magician A work of art and an artist And in the right light, My smile looked easy   Have not my tears or shattered moments
you collector of broken things Let me kiss all of the shit in me they discarded Teach it how to love the me they left How to fight off the heavy of black-girl blues Balance magic between poised and profanity All I’m saying is let me love what’s mine Let me heal on my own Because you might leave one day And I gotta be able to pull myself through world and mourning Previously, someone asked if I worried that some of my pictures would discredit or prevent me from being invited to speak to certain audiences and in certain venues. My response was simple: If I'm rejected or looked over because of my photographs, then that's not the type of space I want to frequent anyway. I am a multifaceted person. A woman of duality. I'm comfortable in my sex and speak candidly about it. And I will not hide any part of the self I've fought long and hard to learn, accept and evolve in to just to be accepted by a certain audience. Take all of me or get nothing. It's just that simple. -Jus A Black-Brown Gurl From No Where Doin Thangs  |
Author"I am a LIFE REPORTER, but for short, you can simply call me a poet." Archives
November 2019
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
