Maybe all anyone ever needs is for someone to notice them, to observe them.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” S

Everything I write is in some strange way a love letter to you.

‘Signed, the gods of smut’

When the lie was exposed, my New God died.

‘For you, a thousand times over!’

NOW THIS IS FUCKING CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

my heart, my blanca

we beared witness to our possibilities

Femi wrote her a poem.
(She can remember the poem, but she cannot remember his last name.)
I dare you to find a flaw
in her beauty;
or to bring forth a woman
who can stand beside
her without wilting.

But then, is that so hard to believe? Who is to say that an object does not come with its own agenda? Or that the collective agenda of its previous owners does not direct its purpose still?

Why won’t he shut up?

Where is the merit in telling the truth? He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. He just wants her.

“It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.”

Love is not a weed,
It cannot grow where it please…

He would have figured her out given enough time. He was perceptive.

Earlier, I read a poem of his on his blog—
The African sun shines brightly.
Burning on our backs;
on our scalps,
on our minds—
Our anger has no cause, except if
the sun was a cause.

Our frustrations have no root, except if
the sun was a root.

“Wouldn’t we?”
“No, because we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we love. Besides, no one is innocent in this world. Why, go up to your maternity ward! All those smiling parents and their newborns? Murderers and victims. Every one of them. ‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.’ ”