I didn’t let my attraction to women define me.
I didn’t think i was gay.
I refuse to let them make me
believe I was born “that way”.
I was born, covered in blood
but now I glitter in scars.
The One who loves me
has not chosen bitter
if He has overturned the past.
I’m worthy to be loved.
I’m painted by grace and days
I’m waiting on God,
until then I choose to admire the world
and enhance the beauty inside me.
I look from God’s eyes and see
My beauty in yours.
I see your glitter,
even if you are a boy or girl.
I’ve hurt before
but through all the blues, broken charms and green eyes,
their arms were soft; their souls were warm and pretty.
Still I never let my attraction to women define me
…or the long thread of broken promises.
There will always be someone else
stronger than me,
but does she or he become my boo
or my god?
Flashes of the scarring untold used to cripple me…. that was only the beginning that triggered a young Christian on a search for the authentic joy of life.
” I asked for it”
So if you are wondering how that ‘used to be’ gorgeously exotic girl drenched lavishly in blood, dangling lifelessly from a 30 feet telephone wire got there, then you are slightly ignorant. No better yet, you are offensively naive. For every one has heard what no one could have read. Is it true? Or did we all
really care? Regardless we all choose to intrude into people’s privacy when we stare and assume what we heard _ the news is vaguely fair. This is why I prefer to air this when I’m dead.
The real question you should be asking is ‘why?’ Well, don’t worry; I saved you the pain and energy of even the thought of thinking. Assumption. This letter which you will find plastered on my desk was torn reluctantly from the center of my ‘not so secret anymore’ diary. Don’t worry about the rest of the book, I burnt it right before I did this. As much as I would have loved to leave you all with the misery of contemplating for years the causes, no, the art of my death, here, I did you guys a favor. Here’s something to tell the news men. My last thoughts, my only words:
Dear Silent yet Strained Listener:
This is obviously before I found God. It was getting really late this Thursday night.. psssst lol ok, no I’m just kidding. No one died writing this. I had to get away from it all. I had to race against time just to get to my room; I just hate being around these people for too long. Today had been just another day in kindergarten. And as usual I was very tired. Mostly disgusted by their pettiness, I had no choice but to listen to the bullshit all day. No really, I have no choice. I try so hard not to count chickens while I walk. I feel like they are stalking me; their words only grow louder. I even went to the extent of walking around with the pressure of my purple head phones squashing my poor burdened head: my failed efforts to block the chatter out. But apparently that only made me look like a deluded lunatic. To them. Oh yeah, I heard that about myself too. This is a day in the life of a mad black woman who has nothing better to do than to just sit there and be talked about. If this were a movie, I would be the star. How could my life get any easier? Wish they’d shut up! I don’t blame them though. I’m quite the fascinating fish. When you live in a small space like this, you have nothing else to talk about. Nothing better than yourselves. So I will help you.
Today I had decided to take a walk a little, without my headphones (because apparently my life dearly depends on what everyone has to say). Okay, not really, my hearing was getting faulty from all the exerted noise. But like you guessed my defense against going deaf ended up going against my sanity. I heard everything, and I mean everything. It only made me even more depressed. The only thing I could possibly do was to move as quickly as I could. You see, I too have had to play the role of the strained listener, the audience member who never volunteered but yet was ridiculed by the power crazed comedian. Yes, I knew that until I took my last bow, I would forever be a slave to a flock of nonpaying spectators. But one day all was going to be different because one day, everyone would be choking from the guilt and lack of space, congested by that many pretenders stuck on a stage. Hope you enjoy the performance! Psstt. . I refuse to live yet alone die to conform to any of their wishes.
Ok Listener, enough of daydreaming about dessert, back to the main course of my miserable day! So I had to dive and dodge skillfully through cock pits (I mean that figuratively), battlefields, bullspit and then finally the cherry on top of it all! I had to play the invisible witness in the pretend game of war; my enemies versus my enemies… but I’m the target. Don’t you just treasure Thursday afternoons? I know I do! I’m quite the happy camper! And that’s just without the drugs.
First of all, I had to endure the excruciating pleasure of ears bleeding from hearing one of my ‘comrades’ speak of how oh woe is he, the poor gay black socially oppressed guy who has to undergo the discrimination and pain of society’s demands and pressures. I’m telling you I hear this song every day on my college record. He just needs his dick removed. And yet such oppressed individuals get off from telling everyone at lunch the newly released story of my life: how I magically woke up and became a ‘whore’. Oh woe is me now. The things I never knew about myself. Maybe we can call my final act a fight for my rights. At least now I can go to my grave knowing that I did something about it and now the world will be a much better place: free of mouth trafficking prostitution. Hey, I had no choice ok, I’m just another slave of society like the person reading this: the investigators, the news crew, my ‘friends’, the police, my loving roommate, my professors after they check me as absently dead, the real trafficked prostitutes, socially abused gay men everywhere, my unfortunate parents and oh before I forget, my dear silent witness, you, my dear reader. But not to worry, one day we will paint again.
So my day got juicier. Some random Jamaican girl approached me in the library telling me how she was thoroughly interrogated by her other Jamaican friends about my presence in her life. She spent hours telling me seductive stories about the campus population’s growing concerns and how I stole boyfriends, did endless drugs , destroyed families, burnt papers as my contribution to global warming, cut through roses instead of myself and maybe killed people. Apparently there was a recorded case of me majestically somersaulting over a highly raised bar with a broom stick as my highpole just to knock, no brutally attack someone on the head. I curiously asked her if I had any dangerous weapons on me that day because at this point I could have murdered an ant. I did not find any of these fun facts funny at all. Who knows how many other helpless victims I might have assaulted? And if so why is there still a crazy colored murderer on the loose? No one knows. All I could do was to suggest that the school buy more security cameras because I might have assaulted all the eye witnesses too. They, who are they? No one knows. This talk concerning the campus ‘protection against me’ program took too long. I had to finish my paper which was due that night. I nonchalantly agreed and bid her a safe walk away from me in case I decided to do what I do best as soon as she turned around. And off course this all happened within the silence of the library. Just when I thought I had discovered my final destination of solitude. At this point, I just could not wait for the day to be finally over and done with just so that I could go and have one of my priceless talks with my roommate, the only person who really understood me. I love and trust that girl with all my heart despite the social characteristics that tell us apart. Apparently she had just arrived on campus with a terrible cold from spending the weekend at the beach with her boyfriend . Somehow I found it hard to sympathize with her text because it was mid-February after all and the land had just seen snow- and less skin. I still felt kind of bad; she is a singer with a beautiful voice.
On my way to my dorm, I stopped by my Geography professor’s office to hand in my paper. I was however paralyzed by the sound of weeping, moaning and groaning as I walked towards the office door. It sounded like he was really given the class ‘valedictorian’ a lesson about the friction and sliding between the earth’s plates. I shook my head. So this is how you get extra credit, huh? I wanted to play ‘knock and run’ but I smiled and then carefully slid my paper underneath the red door. My paper was greeted politely by the mysterious silencing of the sex sounds behind the red door of the secret sex chamber. It was like a muzzled police siren. This is how I also “deservingly” got my extra credit. I didn’t even have to say a word.
Finally! I had arrived at my dorm. Just when I was climbing up the staircase, I overheard the voices of two people complaining to each other about something. And as usual one of them sounded nosy and oppressed and the other just sounded like a man with a very scratchy voice and a bad cough. I did not care initially because both voices sounded like mumbling to me. As I got closer up the stairs, the words became clearer. The girl said desperately, “ you guys can’t split up! You are wonderful together! A match made in heaven.” I giggled to myself, it was my RA speaking. But who could she be pleading with or talking about? My curiosity forced the microphone of my ears to extend for the first time. I had never in my life been the eavesdropper. Now I know the kind of satisfaction that the rest of my campus felt. It was like going to a live drama or opera…. For free!! Then the man, shaky toned spoke in frustration “Well , the truth is I only put up with her because I didn’t think she would be back again this semester. I don’t like her. She’s not a nice person and she’s nasty. She says the nastiest pessimistic things. I want her out for good. I can’t deal with her she’s so nasty!!!”
It finally dawned on me. The painful truth had revealed itself. I knew exactly who they were talking about. It was like a bullet being blown through your teeth and then heavily sinking down your gut. I now knew who the voice belonged to. The shock of it all! They were right; the knife only stabs more when you can’t see it coming especially when the agonizing jab is struck from within than over your flesh. Some things are harder to believe especially when you are the one with the front row seats.
“And Candi- Oh shit!” my roommate choked on her own words. Her manly voice was not man enough to carry that last note. The shock of seeing me obliviously walk by was startling for them both. All I heard was a gasp of horror and shame. That’s the last I heard of her, my only true friend. I shouldn’t have even bothered. The truth only corroded my heart yet alone my ears? I didn’t even need the ice at the end of my name to soothe the ache I could never tame. The pain always burns deeper within than when it’s on the surface. I should have known. I had to narrate
the story of my day through the tears that bled on this diary page. The truth can kill, even more than words, what more the memories? It’s like a volunteered, permitted death. But I asked for it. And this is only the beginning.
‘They’ can read this at my funeral when God is done with me:
“And you will be hated by all for my name’s sake. But the one who endures to the end will be saved.” – Mathew 10:22.
“I need to clean out my
act and clean
up my bag.
I need to find more wisdom
even in a crowded place.
I need to be more
I need God.
I need peace.
I need to see the cross when I’m on my knees.
I need Your peace,
I need Your hand,
I need Your increase.
I need You please!”
Rolls over and starts speeding in car, as gas tank stays open.
Thank God, his last words were to God.