I cried

I cried today.

For the first time since I was in university

When some pained soul cruelly tossed a part of his misery in my face after my offer of help.

I cried then, deeply, from my spirit; body wracking sobs that purged the toxicity from my being. 

I cried the same again today,

I purged the toxicity of having to hold my head up through my misery

I cried to rid myself of the misguided feeling that I had something to prove to anyone. 

I cried, not because a movie made me sad

Not because I felt the pain of the world.

I cried because for the first time in a long time, I felt my own pain; allowed myself to feel vulnerable to myself.

I cried, deep, body-wracking sobs

I cried the one dimensional, strong black woman trope out of my system. 

must be the thrill

What is it about rules that makes one want to break them? 

Undone

Frayed at the seams;

Exposing the tangled mess within. 

Fragile stiches, looped through tired holes;

How much mending can one fabric hold?

Darn the hem that rips the cloth! 

Tack in the feelings unravelling forth. 

Can you tell?

I've always been fascinated with Sherlock Holmes' powers of deduction. Fictitious or not, I always felt that those were powers I would love to have.

Tonight, though, it occurred to me; how does Sherlock really know for sure. As far as human behaviours and motivations go, it could be anything.

How can one accurately deduce a person's state of mind while he is absent? They do it all the time in those crime dramas about serial killers and such, and I assume it is based on some truth but, really, how does one know without a doubt?

I mean say, for example, on my way home from work, I buy myself a piece of lingerie which is clearly meant to seduce a lover. But I do not have a lover.

Say on a night such as this, while feeling a crippling sense of loneliness, I wear said clothing and lounge about the house imagining that I was waiting for a lover (just to make myself feel better).

Say, also, that a deranged person follows me home and lets themselves in (because I neglected to lock my front door). they hide away somewhere in my apartment until I have taken a shower and slipped into this lingerie. Then they pounce on me, kill me and leave without a trace.

If you found my body, slain, in this skimpy undergarment, wouldn't you deduce that it was a crime of passion? If you were the detective, would you start by looking into my love life?

Loneliness is a terrible thing; can you tell?

sand castle

The tide rises

The sand castle spies it

The inevitable happens

The sand castle collapses

Hello gorgeous

My definition of beauty was not me
Now everytime I look in the mirror, I like what I see

Wicked Soul

He carelessly leaves remnants of his cologne every where
Making me turn around expecting to see him when I know he won't be there.
He doesn't realise how wet my panties get everytime he looks at me with those fuck me eyes, those eat me lips.
It's irresponsible of him to have those wide hands and those veined forearms. Those veins that lay there, bulging over muscle; teasing me into wondering how well they'll hold me up when I climb on top.
This wicked soul has a grip on my imagination and he doesn't know; doesn't care. All he cares about is getting me to free him; to give him permission to ignite my daydreams. 
"Fuck you," he says to me. Frustrated, feeling trapped because I won't let him touch me where I crave for him to touch me.
But I can't give in. I can't fuck another's, so yeah, fuck me.