I gave it to myself and shit changed. Cheeks turned red again— more like a black woman appropriate pink— booty got stacked— paper stacked— and I became my own best friend. Like damn girl, you fly as fuck. Even when niggas is low, niggas is up.

Yea.

Nigga you got it.

Just saying “yes” —-to then, not be held tight enough.

So, I stopped outsourcing that job to others and hired myself.

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I pulled up alongside this black man on the street— beautiful negroe features— wide nose, nappy hair: a short fro subtly forming into locs, velvet black skin from the Houston heat.

I ain’t have no money to give. I ain’t have no food to offer.

But I wanted to give.

Reaching into my backseat, I grabbed the bouquet and handed them to the man. We both smiled. I’m confident his teeth were brighter than mine.

I cried. I ugly cried as I pulled off. The interaction lasted as quick as our smiles formed. The snot ran down my lips. I cried. I boo-hoo cried. For him and for me: out of gratitude and sadness.

I was broke too.

AT a time like

This— is a revolutionary act. Black loving is a revolutionary act. Not the gimmicks. Rid of all

The monopolists. Black love, at

AT A time like

This— is trascential.

Don’t play in people’s faces—- & don’t let

Your ego stop

You from walking

Away. Black love at a time like

This—- even if

It’s just you and you in the loving, is a radical act.

I don’t want you more when you bring up other women

I don’t want you more when you spend money to neglect intimacy

I don’t want you more cuz you got hella likes online

I don’t want you more just cuz I get bored

I don’t want you more just cuz you a self proclaimed good guy

I don’t want you more

I don’t want you more cuz you—without invitation, invited yourself to my womb

I don’t want you more cuz you said you’d do something and ain’t do it

I don’t want you more than I want myself

I don’t want you more

Don’t fucking play with me.

God.

& I work really hard not to consume myself with the tom foolery and the shenanigans that I do not want to personally experience in my life—-

& if you put me in a category of people based upon your personal experiences and have decided to project them upon me, it is really not my duty to defend against that with words. Look at how I move…or don’t. It don’t make me no nevermind.

& if I continue to be a lady…

& you know what, God does reward you for advocating on behalf of yourself even if it ain’t lookin’ like it in the moment.

& nigga, just scream. just run. just skip. just smile. just frown. just hang up the motha fuckin’ call. just block the nigga. just text the nigga. call ya auntie. call ya momma. call ya daddy. send ya cousin $1 and tell’em, “drinks on me”. call ya siblings. shih, don’t call nobody and fuckin’ dance.

& every full moon, you might just wanna walk into the street butt ass naked. I triple dog dare you.

& ya period started today. Call off of work.

& girl, it’s all cap til’ the invoice clears.

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& I if I inhaled the crisp air hard enough in the morning, I could smell them freshly frying that chicken on the corner, at Louisiana.

Cuz I could’ve been casting shame.

I kept that to myself.

Cuz who am I.

That’s what they asked before mustering up the courage to introduce themselves. I usually lie during this type of dynamic.

“No,” I express flatly.

I walk to the bar and ask if they have any imported tequila. They don’t. I ask if they have Corralejo. They do. I take two shots of Corralejo, then order a Modelo: salted rim, with a lime stuffed inside.

I turn from the bar and purvey the spot. I take a deep breath. It’s easy. I’m cozy. I take a sip of the Modelo. Crispy and cold, just how I like it— fingertips close to frozen. That’s how I like it.

“I thought you didn’t drink?”

Damn. They found me again.

“I lied.”

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