a reminder from a friend

you are not a means to an end

you are an end within yourself.

the deeper this understanding roots itself in your heart,

the more you’ll treat others as an end within themselves as well.



you were never too much love–

i just feared i wasn’t enough to be what you were asking for

without even parting your lips.


my energy felt your inquiries all the way from the fifth dimension

asking me to love the parts in you i hadn’t even loved in myself yet;

to heal the parts of you i hadn’t even dared to heal in myself yet–

and it wasn’t for lack of trying.

but, in part, for lack of knowing what parts fo me needed care:

where my soul needed feeding, watering, and sunshine,

before i could pour those same things into you.


i’m sorry you were collateral damage in my unhappiness

you deserved more, and someday, you will find within yourself

the love you wanted that i couldn’t readily give.

just for

i will show up



just for you.

i would gently pluck the moon like a flower out of the meadows of the night sky,

present it on a shining silver platter

just for you.

i would sew the stars into a personal constellation

with the threads of your hopes and dreams stitching together each piece,

weaving them into a beautiful garment

just for you to wake up in

or to throw on like a favorite jacket

or lace up like a long-loved pair of boots.

all of this and more for you I would do gladly,

you don’t even have to ask.


i held a late night vigil in rememberance of the peace

i once possessed.

i can’t tell if it was stolen one night while i was sleeping

while trying to stay woke,

or if i parcelled it out so surreptitiously

it escaped my own notice.

whatever the case, seratonin escaped

left me up all night.


“I am undone.” — Ibram X. Kendi

First I was angry

Then I cried

Then the pain cut so deep

It choked me like the police

When another video showed me another brother has (nearly) died. 

If a heart was meant to take this much pain, it would have more valves

to pump all the blood required to fight for each breath and flee from each state-sanctioned bullet. 

If a child’s eyes were meant to see his father shot seven times, they would be deep enough and wide enough to hold a past full of generations of trauma and a future studded with flashbacks of a father’s (near) death.

If a people were meant to grieve and keep grieving for this long,

If a people were meant to fight for their humanity this long,

If a people were meant to keep squeezing  for droplets of justice for this long,

We wouldn’t break and ache and groan and moan and shout and scream and cry and plead for the acknowledgement of our humanity. 

If our spirits were meant to hold any of these dualities,

They would have been equipped accordingly—

But they’re not and never have been. 

And this admission isn’t a sign of weakness,

Rather an assertion that constantly fighting for the same breaths others so easily take for granted feels both demoralizing and exhausting—

Another duality we’ve been expected to hold too long. 

Well baby, our arms have been tired. 

You can’t expect us to hold this too,

Not another one

Not again.