“A Helping Hand”

Check out my recent blog post on the City Year DC Blog!

If you were wondering where I been or what I been up to, this will give you a little taste.

Its always hard work trying to change the world.

A Helping Hand

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The Sound of 2002

The Sound of 2002

sensitive content for survivors of sexual assault

You felt the kicks in your stomach.

Your gut responded to the shame that would ultimately be the result

How you lose a child at the age of 8

There is no right or left wing to tell me where I belong

There was no choice to abort me

Like being surgically removed from your own skin

There were no signs on milk cartons, but I knew you were no longer there

The abortion occurs and you call it life

Like death with no funeral

Like people who did not pay their respects

like death etching his name in your skin

Losing futures and the present

Innocent’s presence

Like knowing the before and after

Living in the after and t being normalized

Like my exposition means nothing

Writing in braille to talk to those who couldn’t hear the screams and still cant

Like the breath for relief that will never come

I am constantly needing to be rescued

Like being the practice doll for CPR

Exhales wasted.

I want to ask daddy why he never answered my screams that night, but he did when I had nightmares. The real monsters needed to be attacked and you needed to run into the room prepared to rescue me, but you didn’t. When the monsters were imaginary you were there ready to beat the ass of the thing that didn’t really exist. No form and no fear. We put a face to the monster ad you allowed him to live under our roof.

I want to ask mama why she cared for me at a distance that night and has been ever since.

I want to know why my only hero. The only one who spoke out on my behalf was the one nearest to me. You were there in the room and don’t know if you so easily believed me because I made it easy to believe or because you heard me scream the moment death etched itself in my skin.

I want to ask mama why she reinforces my fragility, never exchanging the power she used to get through this world

I want to ask everyone if maybe a conversation could change reality. If more words and less stares could remove the shame collected over all these years. Could a conversion of oxygen to carbon dioxide through the syntax filled air give me permission to breathe. If it can why do you watch your women die?

Thorns Hurt

I am having a hard time trying to figure out where I am in life and where I want to go. I am just simply lost. I heard that if I just start to write, I can figure things out. So here it is. 



Her style. That’s what it was. From the way her hair seemed to sit on her head like cotton balls. Soft to the touch, hidding thorns. She wasn’t like a rose because rose, admired from afar.  her style made her hard to love. Cotton balls soft and warm like the perfect resting place once they are picked. She wouldn’t even allow for you to get that close. But did you really want to? That’s what no one could figure out. But you’re drawn in so easily and once that happens, get your bandaid ready.