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,
But my slip don't even fit you any more
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
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 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 scream imprisoned behind it
They will not see the force nor the effort it takes to do something so natural
To inhale exhale
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
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
"I am a LIFE REPORTER, but for short, you can simply call me a poet."