 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
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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  sometimes, I think WOMAN is the closest I will ever get to heaven So, forgive me if I praise her skin drown in the shades of her heart beat sing her blues on every stage like it’s a pulpit How can I not appreciate her war? See scripture at her gates? Woman got lessons They hang on her hips Get stirred into her pots They pop off her lips between profanity and prayer Even her “fucks” are soaked in starlight Dear woman- You supernova shit talking in your glory You are one of the reasons I still believe in God  I love like
dreaming while I'm awake like that first taste of Hip Hop like dope boys love corners that don't love them like school girls hold their first crush like flying in a world of gravity like black girl loves black boy or black girl like the first poem that didn't know it was a poem like I'll make beautiful of these scars I love like I love like I love like I ain't neva been broken I got a collection a collection of still shots in my heart
Moments of breaking and of making Most of them are labled with some version of "not again" or "is it safe here?" Self says I don't know Heart says It's been safe here They were just not safe IN here So, every day Me, Self and Heart collectively decide to continue to love We just keep the still shots as a reminder that it's not safe to let everyone in But, just like heaven, I find it odd that this gate is even necessary |
Author"I am a LIFE REPORTER, but for short, you can simply call me a poet." Archives
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