Sane Heart, Old Mind, Beating Soul.

So you wanna be tough, yeah?

Twist your mouth and sneer at everyone who ever looked down on you, yeah?

"Nah cuz, I don't do emotions. I don't do that shit cuz."

Look through the misty window onto a street of snow as your mother lays ill on that hard as fuck hospital bed next to you- plastic tubing on the spine of her arm?

Jk. I've never seen snow before.

It was the ocean, swirling blue Japanese pop art in the 80's and the low hum howl of the wind saying hi and touching its surface. 

I turn and my mother's on her side, talking to one of the tens who visit her so that they can be absolved of their guilt and  be able to comfortably say, "I saw her right before she died and she looked absolutely fine. We even had a conversation."

Bullshit spraying brown chunks from their pursed lips, can you smell that or is it just me?

She'll be fine. It's just a UTI.

I'll grow cranberries for you on my sparse coin studded windowsill so I'll never have to eat that delicious hospital dinner again, tastes so good and cranberries are so bitter.

Both of them unpalatable.

Will you love me even when we can't see each other anymore? Can love pass through this invisible dimensional wall that we're still too fucking stupid to comprehend?

Will you come back and pop the abscess in the corner of my beating heart like you'd do to everything that was not supposed to be a part of this?

Your love as a ghost better never ever change. 

Stay the same lovely.

Keep that breathless charm.

Last Page

The only thing standing between you,
And anything you want to be,

Is a state of mind,

Gatekeeper arms spanning wide and open,
Named You-Created-Me-I-Don't-Really-Exist.
Call him by his name.

"You know what you want, don't you?"
"Uh-huh." Your lower lip trembles,
"How badly do you want it?"
"I always get what I want."

He lowers his arms, "Give it to yourself."



And he shrugs and walks away.

All in my feelings.

I feel like a total fuck up.

I also feel like this has been the subject line of one too many posts on this blog. Because its true, I fuck up a lot. Even when I'm not aware of it, I do.
Even when I haven't, if feels like I have or I'm about to.

I fuck up retrospectively; the real weight of my fuck ups do not hit me until a few years have passed reluctantly and it dawns on me that that thing I did or that decision I made a few years ago was a GIANT FUCKING MISTAKE I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT...

...but of course, it's too late by then.

I've been all up in my feelings lately and Drake usually says that like it's a good thing, and I guess it is. I just have to ride the tidal wave of suck until the end, whenever that might be, and hope I can make it to the end without wiping out.

God, this sucks. I feel like everyone hates me and I know that's crazy, why would anyone hate me? I haven't done anything to anyone.


I know it's just my mind talking dumb shit but thoughts like that are unthinkable. I start thinking, "I'm annoying, I'm an annoying twat who annoys everyone I've ever crossed paths with. I take up too much space, I breathe their air and now they hate me because I'm just an unlovable, annoying twat."

And once I've started going down this spiral of self-loathing and self-pity, it's hard to turn back. Unthinkable thoughts.

I've been through this enough times to know that right now, I just need to be nice to me and give myself some TLC. Don't rush it, just ride the wave and feel all the things it wants me to feel because I'll never get out of it until I feel those things in all their misery and glory.

Self love is hard, man. But I'm gonna need it if I'm gonna ride this wave.

What You Eat Don't Make Me Shit.

It's a two way street,
And do not think for one second that the fact that we share blood entitles you to any part of me,

I am not your birthright.

Family is solid,
Friendship is liquid,

Liquid points-
-that you-
-have not earned.

I take in more liquids than solids,
Because I don't like shit,
Yours included,

Don't get it twisted, ma'am.

Nothing Even Matters.

She's heartsick,
More sick than heart.
A craving for magic,
And she won't settle for anything less than magical.

She really wanted it to be him,
She knocked on wood with crossed fingers,

But it was less than par.

Less than bare minimum.

Queens are queens because they're queens,
And she needs to be a queen,
For herself,
By herself.

And everything more,
Nothing less.

So basically...

I'm going to post everything almost everything I write and spam the blogosphere.

The shiny gold & the pale brown shit.

I don't care anymore.

Broderick: #1

Dear Broderick,

I would lie and tell you I miss you but the truth is Brod, I don't.

The first few months since you left were hard but now, I can't even make out the shapes of your scars. Scars I once knew so well.
There's the one on your left calf, dark and chaotic from when you cut yourself on a rusty nail and got tetanus for a week.

The other one, the one your father gave you when you were 12, it irks me.
I remember it being on your back but as much as I close my eyes and tug on my mind, I just can't picture it anymore.

I cried, at first. Now, I'm content with you evading my mind in true slow-air-released-out-of-a-balloon fashion.

Your mother stopped by today. She brought me a cup of soup. She asked if I'd spoken to you lately, I lied and said yes. She's so sweet and delicate, I'll have to cut her off gently. The fact that she lives next door doesn't help but it's how we met in the first place, so I shouldn't complain..

Call your mother, she's lonely, she misses you.

We had our run, Brod. I don't know why we keep hanging on to this idea that's like watery soup on a hot day, unnecessary.

I loved you once, that is enough for all my lifetimes.

The Melaphobic Presents: A Sort of Guide to Some Stuff

1. Parties: For the introvert who's also kind of an extrovert but definitely more introverted, this is for you, child.
Most times, you're a hermit, sometimes you briefly meta morph into a social butterfly, and then you kill the butterfly and go back to watching Sense8 from the safe confines of your bedroom. (Seriously, that show is so good, it deserves a shit tonne of awards)

I get it, I'm just like that. Every once in a while, I'll put on nice clothes and transform from my usual dirty hobo self into a fairly presentable female person. I'll get out of the house, interact with people, get intoxicated on...something... and come back home with a pocketful of regrets and things I could have said instead of that thing I said, dammit.

Sometimes I crave raw experience and adventure and sometimes, I don't want to see or interact with any other human beings for a very long time.

Is it weird? Yes.
Is it okay? Yes.

2. Men: Guys suck, this is literally something everyone knows but doesn't talk about enough even though no truer words have ever been spoken. Guys.Suck.
The media feeds us all these stereotypes about how women are complicated and men are as easy as puppies to navigate but it's all just government propaganda, okay? IT'S ALL LIES.

Each person is an extremely complex individual and that's just it.

Now, is your life just a barrage of unrequited love hitting you in the gut like an unfair game of dodge ball? Do you do your Single Ladies a la Beyonce dance to block out the negativity but then the song ends and you think to yourself, "Fuck, what if I'm the problem? What if I'm just unlovable?" 

Good news, yes. It's you. You're unlovable.
Because you do not appreciate yourself in all your sweaty-from-dancing-to too-much-Beyonce glory, you will continue to be unlovable.

Until the day you wake up and realize, "God, I'm smart and beautiful as fuck. I love me so damn much, get over here you sexy beast you." 

There. You just threw yourself some love. Now you're lovable. You're welcome.

3. Family: I'm slowly starting to understand why Jack Nicholson went bat shit crazy in The Shining. Bruh, I get you now.

Welcome to Grossly Misunderstood Time, starring me and my family. You'd think 19-20 years is a long time to really get to know a person but I'm still so surprised by how little they do. Like are you even trying?

A family is essentially just a love unit though. You support each other, emotionally, financially and most importantly, unconditionally. When I'm running low on love, I know I can just dip into the bottomless sauce tray that is my family's love and curl into fetal position and just take the sweetest nap of my life. (And I take a lot of sweet ass naps)

However, break a few rules that are worth it in the name of individuality and "being me". They'll be mad for a bit but eventually, it should fizzle out...or it might not. In that case, just be yourself and if they love you like they say they do, they'll come around eventually. If not then fuck it, the universe is your family.

4. School: I hate school. Are you even going to use your degree?

But I need a passing grade or else I'm gonna be stuck there for ever. So suck it up and just get it over with.

I shall keep updating this list as I go on with this obscure and fucking peculiar life. But that's pretty much it right now. 

Colour with the U.

That's the thing about misery, she likes to wallow.

Misery becomes habit and habit becomes norm.

It takes two to tango in this dance of life. You and your happiness. Otherwise it's a slow, lone waltz.
Beautiful.

Sad.

Try not to think about the past. It drags you back to it by the scalp and holds your head up and peels your eyelids back, forcing you to look at all the things you did. All the things you did wrong.

Don't think about the future either. A hiss of smoke from the ground. You don't know where it came from & you don't know how long it's going to last & just thinking about it in itself is wasted time waving goodbye from the backseat window of a speeding car.

I don't know what to tell you because I don't know what I know but one thing I'm sure about as sure as the rain that glides on the other side of the glass and the sun that dries it to shine through...

Here. Be here.

When You Realize You're Fucked.

It won't come in small waves,
No, my love...it's not that kind.

This is an epiphany. It will hit you the only way epiphany's know how.
Hard.
At once.
And it will linger, hover. Like that annoying mosquito you thought you swatted but creeps into your ear as you sleep.

Did you blink? Because that white silence piercing your ear drum is now a massive shit storm.
Raining fecal matter,
On your perception of yourself.

Oh you know, just all your hopes and life's dreams...covered in shit. Glittery, bedazzled shit. You can spray paint it all you want but it's not gonna glow. You know that. I know that.

My love, You. Have. Fucked. Up.

You. Are. Fucked.

"A little louder for the guys in the back, please?"

...

But you're not a total fuck up, so don't knot that noose just yet.
Shh, put the rat poison down.
No buts, step off that ledge my friend.

"You have brains in your head,
You have feet in your shoes,
You can steer yourself,
Any direction you choose." - said the mystical magical wizard and Shaman, Dr. Seuss.

So steer yourself to the bar,
Or to the bong,
Pop that pill,
Sink that acid,
Whatever your poison, (NO RAT POISON)

And drink this colossal fumble away 'til you make a bed of the filthy floor.
Inhale until you lose sight of this pitiful blunder.

Then wake the fuck up,
And try again.

Or you know,
Fuck it.

Move on.

147

Any decent millennial remembers Code name: Kids Next Door, with it's children's liberation dogma and limitless amount of birthday cake in that one episode. Now, remember The Delightful Children From Down The Lane? The five kids that were in fact one single being? The villains that had one shadow? (I was a very observant child)

Even though these were five different individuals, we couldn't help but see them as one. Their silhouette looked like heads stuck on a fluffy cloud. (Again, very observant.)

It's easy for us to imagine the Garissa University victims like that. A bunch of obscure faces and names we never knew. Cut-out heads glued on a fluffy cloud with #147notjustanumber scribbled on it and we can stick some bottle cap wheels on its sides and push it off the sky.

But my dear, they were so much more than that.
They were living breathing human beings.
They were sentient and conscious.
They had fingers and toes.
They ate their breakfast in the morning and dinner at night. Like you & I.

They had a mother who sent them care packages of fruits, vegetables and Indomie noodles.
A father who called every so often to make sure they were alright in that stern-but-loving way that fathers do.

A boy probably liked someone, he was summoning up the guts to ask her out on a date because he just had to spend time with her.
He enjoyed her company.
He enjoyed watching her blush, the corners of her mouth slightly turned up, every time his arm brushed against hers.
She would have said yes, if he'd have asked.

Maybe a girl had just aced her CAT.
She had studied very hard for it and it counted for a significant part of her grade.
She was gonna go out with her friends that night to celebrate.
She was going to wear that gorgeous LBD her aunt got her from Woolworths a few months ago.
Red lipstick.

All it takes is a small twist of fate and any one of these 147 girls and boys could have easily been your brother; tousling your hair and yelling at the TV screen whenever Chelsea scored a goal.

Your sister; taking too long to get dressed when you're already 20 minutes late and making you soup when you're ill.
His primary school desk mate.
Her childhood crush.

So no, 147 is not just a number. It's 147 daydreamers.
147 desires.
147 fears.
147 hopes and dreams and ambitions.
147 laughter.

...147 beautiful hearts,

minds,

and souls.

Dead. Gone.

Just...stop. On Second Thought, Don't.

So a few months ago, I decided, “Why the fuck not?” and submitted a story to Jalada.org for their Afro-futurism anthology.

In retrospect, that was so brave and yet so dumb.

On a scale of 1-10, my story was a cabbage.

No-one really likes cabbages. They don’t taste that bad, they have all these health benefits but you’ll never see anyone ask for cabbage at a restaurant or as their last meal unless life really (and I mean REALLY) screwed them over.

Fuck.

I’ve only read one story and already, my mind is blown. Brain bits everywhere, not gross at all; it’s actually quite beautiful.

And these are all very accomplished writers with actual books and accolades and their own presses.

I am not worthy.

So, I’m going to go cry in a corner with a bottle of wine like a suburban housewife. It shouldn’t take long.

Then I’m going to write some more ass wipes and hope that as I go along, I dry heave less.

P.s: You can check out them out here: http://jalada.org/2015/01/14/jalada-02-afrofutures/