Constantly rediscovering that I am the one that I was waiting for.

Love is not as scarce as the world makes it out to be.

It was a tough time.

But it gave me words.

When you’re in a bad space the joyous sounds of laughter and cheerful chatter are suddenly a haunting audio.
Sunshine, fresh air and the general brightness of the outdoors become offensive, its almost as if the refreshing ambiance of the day is mocking your pain. But before your heart began to cry you appreciated these things.

That’s when it becomes apparent that nothing in the world is either good or bad but whatever you perceive it to be.

We are literally creators.

Gods.

Powerful even in our pain.

I pray you realise your beauty before they do.

What if they keep it a secret?
What if they snatch it and leave you lying helpless on the floor?
Will you have the strength to find it when you’ve hit the ground?
What if you never do?
Are you prepared to die empty?

And when they tell you that you are worthless? How will you know that’s a lie?
How long will it take you to find your truth after they have buried it so far down in the ground?

I pray you realise your beauty before they do.
May you never discover it at your heart’s funeral.

Find yourself before they do.

Black elderly women try to encourage us, their young black daughters, to lose our big asses and wide hips because theirs were shamed when they were growing up and even in adulthood. It’s hard for them to understand that this younger generation of black girls are actually proud of their voluptuous shapes.

One of my back mothers suggested that I trim my womanhood. I smiled and told her that my body is the way it is because I am a black woman. She was genuinely puzzled at my polite protest. I was genuinely happy and proud to be able respond to her suggestions in that way.

It was a gentle conversation.

I understood where she was coming from.

I understand the more gruesome violence elderly black women come from with their bodies.

You have every right to distance yourself from someone at any given time. But you better respect the consequences of it, and the vibe you create because of it.

The thing about the doors that you shut is that,

sometimes it can’t be you that opens them again.

Not everyone will know what you know, feel what you feel, consume what you consume or realise whatever you realise.

Teach.

Don’t attack.

We’re not going through the same experiences.

Make your discoveries accessible to your fellow man at least once.

The scariest thing about being in a dark place is finding your way around it. This ability can make you oblivious to the harmful impact of your night. It makes the need to pull yourself out less urgent, and perhaps even unnecessary altogether.

There you are convinced that you are strong and living out the narrative of survivors, unaware that you’ve actually allowed the darkness to form part of your identity. Because how do you even begin to realise all that in your comfortable dark glory? How do you begin to grasp all that when it feels like you’re finally breathing? I mean, even imagined peace is worth holding on to.

And yes, sometimes one is genuinely surviving, lets not underestimate the strength of the spirit. Be careful though; be careful when you find yourself dealing with darkness easily. That may be an indication that you have become it.

And then…well…you’re just fucked.

May darkness never get away with imitating who you are.

They will sometimes leave your life without a word.
Allow it.
Let the space in which the exit took place be – whatever its temperature, look or sound.
Let it be.
Because goodbyes have never promised to exist in a certain kind of way.

Thokoza dlozi.

Black divinity is a thing.

Songs are memory boxes.

The English language has made it easy for people to imitate intelligence.
That’s all the intelligence ever is – a soulless imitation.

At least behave like you want the things that you are asking the universe for.

It wasn’t just a balloon. And I didn’t have a disprin that I could take for my pain when he popped it. All I could do was experience this striking lightening move inside of me.

He had succeeded in making me fold myself into absence; I grabbed my earphones and desperately smashed through the walls of music trying to find solace and pieces of my stolen peace.

It wasn’t just a balloon.
Why are people so mean?
Why do they get to be this horrible?
I didn’t have a disprin or anything to fix myself, so I had to sit there and feel him win. My body was forced to communicate satan’s glory with me.

It wasn’t just a balloon.
I found myself carrying a weight of disappointment in the world’s enablers, myself included as this.
The ones that throw wood at the fires that come from pained things like him.
They validate these terrorists and make their ugly stand as something cool and acceptable.
Why does satan get to live so comfortably?

It wasn’t just a balloon.
It’s never just about the balloon.
I watched myself struggle to breathe because another man decided to be weak right by me.
He scattered his broken pieces in my space, and all I could do was watch, while trying to avoid being cut.

But I was cut.
Yes,I was cut.
Because people are mean.
And my feelings are explicitly honest.
And it was never just about the fucking balloon.

It’s okay and perhaps necessary to disengage with the world. But you must remain engaged with yourself.

The world is a construct.

It is you that is life.

It is you that must always be kept.

Pain looks sexy
when dressed in poems.

The truth has its seasons.

There is literally nothing that can end you.

You will rise somewhere else,
in some other way or form.

The rhythm of your breath will be different,
but you will still be able to dance.

Endings don’t know a thing like you.
They could never.

You were created by too many forevers.

I wish you constant new,

even if it doesn’t look “good.”

Be new.

Always be new.

The body is a physical expression of who we are; a creative tool that we use to present self, both consciously and unconsciously.

You could call it a canvas.

The way you move, treat, and dress it is all a silent story about you. But we taint this genius tool when we attach our egos to it; causing us to view it in the most basic, and often toxic, of ways.

We shouldn’t have to stretch too far to collect the beautiful stories about these bodies; their ability and will to carry us is enough. What could be more beautiful than something that carries all of the wonder that is you at any given moment? Something that you break and heal inside of constantly.

These bodies can actually stand us. They can stand who we are. And when we cheat or neglect who we are, the body reacts to show that to us. Because these bodies are honest.

Now these bodies will perish, but for now, while we are here, they are a language for our being

I suppose you break to realise just how much you can’t break.
You kind of just always grow back in different parts of life’s soil.

That’s all.

Good intentions can have harmful outcomes.
Apply your heart.

My self-care is easy to carry out in the mornings.

It’s a little harder on the other side of the ams,
when then the world and all of its toxic traps are awake and set up.
Ready to test how badly I want to stay alive.

One of the most valuable lessons I have learnt in my adulthood is that nothing will happen to you if you leave the house without making your bed.

We are beautifully fragile,
always somewhere between falling apart and keeping it together.

There’s something beautiful about being close to breaking,
and still only just bending.

Good storytelling- whether it is through writing,photography,film or drawing-is less about the skill for that medium than it is about one’s courage to tell their truth.

How will we heal when the world has a one size fits all hierarchy for dis-ease?

How will we heal when our dis-eases are at the bottom of the hierarchy, or not featured at all?

How will we heal when our dis-eases are deemed to be too little, unimportant?

With all this erasure, how will we heal?

You probably know what you think you know.

I am realising more and more that I am no different from the things and the people I admire.
I am drawn to them because they are in fact some of me.
I realise this now because I am finally remembering how to be that some.

Share your truths.

You can save lives with all of your you.

Our bodies have carried us through all of our deaths and rebirths.
They are our graveyards before they are finally housed in graveyards.
A heaven before their dust finally returns to heaven – whatever your kind of heaven may be.

We spend our whole lives dying,
losing parts of ourselves every single day. and minute. and second.
For better and for worse.

We have been dying for so long.

Umdali loves me
Amadlozi wami love me too

All is fair in love and love.

Honour
wombs you passed through
hands that worked for you
hearts that prayed for you
souls that hoped for something like you.

Honour
the entire history of love that made you.

I’m learning the unapologetic ‘no’
I’m learning to drop it on hard ground
bringing no cushions for its fall
so that it smashes when it lands
and all of its pieces are heard.

I’m learning the unapologetic ‘no’
the one that is only followed by a period
.
I’m learning not to clothe it with reason
or adjust its voice
so it stands on its own
with freedom. in nudity
unburdened. unashamed

I have lived the violence of ‘yes’
now it’s time for peace
now its time for care
so I’m learning the unapologetic ‘no’