This entry isn’t about being Black, or how I wear it.  But, I’m still Black and this blog is still mine so we’re good. 

This entry is about love.  Not mine.  I’m not in love though I’d like to be. I’m in lust, but that’s a different story. [Like wake you up in the middle of the night from scandalous dreams cursing hoping no one heard you, lust. Plan things in advance because you know they’re going to make that person smile, lust.  Lose time because you’ve been daydreaming about situations that could be but just might not, lust.]  I’m definitely in lust and readily admit that love is still pretty far behind me.

A friend, however, is ass deep in the ass end of love.  The part where all the shit comes out and you find yourself covered in the substance pulling your hair out. Where you’re in the craziest headspace of your life and you’re too close to killing yourself than is good for anyone.  She’s in the mirror image of a situation I was in such long time ago. The one that broke me into so many pieces I still wonder if I’ll ever be legible.  The one that had me convinced I was at the end of everything.  She’s hurting in such a powerfully similar way I cry when she does.  When her hair falls in front of her face as it does when one is distraught I remember my disheveled-ness of yore.  Fuck. She reminds me of the shit show I was.  The shit show I’ll be again if I ever fall in love again and that shit scares me. 

She keeps apologizing for being crazy. For taking energy… for being ugly. I can barely get the words, “You’re not crazy. You don’t have to apologize” out of my head fast enough.  We’re going hiking today.  She needs to get away from here, from this place. From them.  She needs to get away to a much further distance than we’ll travel this morning. But I’m not sure she can. 

I, on the other hand, will continue to play at lust as if whatever is looming on the other side is the safest place in the world.