Ay planet Mars, see how my heart softens just beneath the breast bone? How my breaths have grown deeper? Feel all the love shining through my skin and hair? How my curves and lines take their time? How choosy the pose? How that pink vintage held my breasts longer than any suitors? How vulnerable is watching cause vulnerable is me? How I manifest what I need and it shows me kindness? How vivid the dreams. Root healer. Won’t she do it? A healing taking place.
Take a breath. Life is beautiful. The weeds, flowers, sunshine, our perfect hearts. The sensation of skin touching. Fresh and supple and together. Deep. Slow sex in the morning. Footsies. These are just moments. And in-betweens. And I just want to never stop loving like my life depends on because well my life does depend on it.
Stanlee’s death affects me deeply because so many black women and mothers aren’t given any love, support or breaks in this cruel world. We are left to our own everything. I think of my mother who had died an emotional death that she never recovered from long before she died physically.
My heart is broken today. A young mother of three completed suicide in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania two days ago. We all have a painful tune we carry. No one is exempt from a pain like this, the thought, a memory.
I took a mental health first aid course earlier this year. Most of the people in the class including myself used the term ‘committed suicide’ when recalling stories. However, as the instructor described that using the verb ‘commit’ when followed by an act is generally reserved for actions that many people may view as sinful or immoral. Someone commits burglary or murder or rape or perjury or adultery or crime or something else bad. Suicide is sad, for those left behind yes, but the person who completes suicide is not committing a crime or sin. Rather the act of suicide almost always is the product of mental illness, intolerable stress, or trauma.
Though taboo we need more love in this world. More love. ❤️