Even Up-Nathaniel’s Story

Image result for full blood super wolf moon

 

Poor bastard.

I told him not to try and take her from me. She was mine. Deeper than a ring. Stronger than a vow. She had may mark. My scent. She was more mine than she was ever her mother’s daughter. He never should have tried to stop her from coming to me. From coming back to me. She never belonged to him–was never made from him. I know God created Eve for Adam, from him-out of him.

But mates? It is deeper than any rib. It is your flesh in the outermost form. You, peering into you, definite and resounding. I knew her, before I saw her.  After phasing for the first time? I saw her. She went to my high school, glasses and caramel tone. She was quiet and timid. It was her eyes. They drew me. They sent me. It was her.

I had bumped into her outside her English class, she adjusted her red Jansport backpack our Junior year. I bumped into her because I was late to class, trying to get away from a girl that tried to ask me to take her to Prom. It would be the Equinox, I didn’t need to be out and around her. Lana, her name was. I bumped her, outside the S Wing of our high school. “I’m so sorry.” She said, adjusting her glasses. It was warm outside, but she had a big dark denim jacket. Lips and face bare. Eyes big and brown. I heard her heartbeat. Counted her breaths.

I couldn’t feel my knees and my mouth was dry. She smiled, eyes shiny and bright. If she spoke again, I didn’t know if I would keep my hands off her. It was her. I had only seen her, this exact way, a year ago. I let her pass, and I went to my math class as a lit match. I had her scent. I could find her after dismissal, and never be without her again.

******

What, how did she get around this mark? You can’t remove a mark. You can’t cover it up. I didn’t know how she did, I don’t know how I lost her…or she lost me.

I watched the backyard, and smoked. I smoothed my cut hair, and heard the water from the upstairs shower running. I inhaled again, letting my eyes adjust to the dark around me. I inhaled again, held it, remembering how I held her again. How I made her put her veil on as I reclaimed her body. As I entered her again, on this bed not ours, and demanded she open to me. Reopen for me. I had seen her a week before, and waited for this imposter to leave her.

I exhaled the drag of my cigarette, and licked my lips. I tasted Lana. She was still a fresh and sweet as when she was 16, untouched and open. I pinned her to this bed, not ours, and reclaimed her. With her hands above her head, I looked at her, face unchanged by the almost decade apart. I relished those eyes rolling in back of her head, fluttering and lips quivering. Her wrapped her legs around me, clenched my hands in hers.

I thought about how she looked in her veil. “Keep your eyes open.” I leaned to her right ear, and growled as she came again. I felt the familiar flutter through her, and rushing into me. I felt whatever was broken meld, and shift to bringing us together again. I nipped into her shoulder, all of me incessant and needing all of her.

She couldn’t be a wife if she had a mate.

She couldn’t stay with him, not any more.

 

I stood up, adjusting my jacket and putting out my cigarette on the blue porch railing. I could hear her thoughts again. I knew he would come for me. I  can’t be here one second longer! I hadn’t, I had forgotten how good he tasted. How he felt–and, for a minute. I thought he forgot how I liked it.

She was giggling, oblivious that I had taken her ring as watched her sleep. I never wanted to see the damn thing on her again! Mrs. Lana Kenne was leaving. With me, tomorrow. No note. No nothing. As I went back onto the house, to wait for her again, naked and slick. I walked through the kitchen. Seeing the pen and pad there on the refrigerator, I left the good Doctor Kenne this note.

She’s leaving.

She’s gone.

If I see you again, I’m ripping your throat out with my teeth.

-Nate

 

I went to the staircase, taking three steps at a time. I had to remind myself not to phase, there was no need to be in a protector capacity for her right now. I wanted more of her. I shed clothes by the bed and watched the bathroom door. Delighted she was on the other side of it. I would make her remember that I knew her better than he did. And I knew her well enough that she would let me. Over and over again.

Being Part Of The Knot-Part 3: Being Chose

I am a fan of jewelry.

I always have been. I think that the first time I saw a crown, I have wanted one for myself. I especially fave been fond of rings.

On and in my pursuit of trying to have a husband before any sense of life or self, I imagined what my wedding set would look like. I imagined Colin Cowie would do the reception (Google him!). I, in my Vera Wang gown, would walk in with Derek Jeter on my arm with cream and pink roses to a cheering chorus of about 200 people.

And the ring, darling? The ring!

I wanted the ring, size 7, platinum or white gold with princess cut diamonds. I imagine the rocks would glimmer, and shimmer in the light. It would be like holding all the rainbows in the world on my left hand. Our first dance? It Had To Be You by Harry Connick, Jr or Nothing Even Matters by Lauryn Hill. We would dance and I’d twirl, and I’d be a whole Queen forever.

Alas, that didn’t happen that way.

However, but I did think about this.  What is it about being chosen–getting chose, as I call it. What is so powerful about those words (“Will you marry me?”) and the appropriate answer (“Yes.”) that will allow women to put up with so much, for so long, in order to be chosen?  The best that my experience and failed relationships can garner is the reason why getting chose is so powerful is simple. Everyone wants to be special.

To be special.

We all want to know there is someone in the world whom decides that they cannot live without us. That they ache for us, lose breath at the site of us. Can think of no other lips to kiss, not body to meld into, hand to hold other than ours. We want to have the affirmation that we belong to and with someone. Harlequin has made love and its storytelling a multi-million dollar business! I mean, it was the fiction of Nora Roberts that reminded me, showed me, that love deep, solid and mystic was not only possible–but available! And from her  Three Sisters Island series, I got this Gaelic phrase:

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We all search for that, at the cost of ourselves, and complete selves. In the pursuit of being the love and the only to someone else, look at the behavior we consider. That we tolerate. That we endure. That we silence. For women, we do it in the pursuit of metal and rocks. This proof that we can–and have–endured all things toward the pursuit of this wearable proof that we were chosen. That we are the love, the only, the precious one.

At the cost of being special, we forsake warning signs. Don’t ask questions. Lie about answers. We hide from truths and wisdom from sources that have seen and lived longer. Being chose is better than being alone–so it is said. The beautiful thing about relationships is they are supposed to add to you, not define you. Not encompass and rule over you. Your partner is  not a trophy, but an asset.  A reminder that with this world and all its darkness, you are not alone to slay it. That you are worthy of something lasting, beyond a day–beyond a dress. More than any band, more than any Colin Cowie centerpiece.

Being chose is indeed magnificent. I myself have been chosen twice. What I have learned is that what problems were there before being chose, will be there after–waiting. They will amplify. They will irritate. They will root. They will embolden or embitter. Be careful dearest ones in the pursuit of being chose; that is only half of what is required. The other part? It matters who you are chosen by…

 

 

 

My Heartbeat Bill, Part 3

*NSFW:  These screenshots were taken on Saturday, May 11, 2019. These were taken from my personal Facebook page. I have known this person for some time. While I am not shocked at her comments, I am distressed at the lack of compassion shown by her. For those that need support, my inbox is open:  theladyofharris@icloud.com   -JBHarris

 

I kept the secret of me having an abortion for over a decade.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my mother or best friend. I didn’t tell anyone else I had dated. I told my OB/GYN  because it pertained to my health. My first husband was so nosy, that he sat in with me on these Well-Woman Exams when we were together. So, I had to tell him.

As of this year, the child Dominic and I had would have been 18. My tribe, at age 37, would have been three. When I got pregnant to term with my oldest daughter,  was 26. With my youngest daughter I was 27. My kids are now almost 12 and 10. The woman that made this post cannot image the vitriol that is rolling off this page. The palpable hatred and condemnation I felt reading this was one of the reason why I thought God didn’t love me and may never love me again. It is this vapid, dissociative empathy that I believe causes people to turn from God. In so doing, they are sent out to fight the world–and their demons–alone.

Alone. 

Again, if you have never been faced with an impossible, fucked up decision like this, you cannot weigh in on these types of impossible fucked up decisions. I understand this is social media and this is the price you pay for free speech. I get she has a right to be passionate about her beliefs and faith. I get that. I became pro-choice after my abortion. I could no longer wag my finger in the face of someone else that was in the same situation I was in. That doesn’t make me any better than the next girl that had a horrible decision to make.

I believe that the people that feel as she does aren’t pro-life:  they are pro-birth. Forgetting that children need food, clean water and shelter. In some circumstances even if the woman were to have the child, church’s laity or their leadership will shame this woman AND the child! Furthermore, if you have never had a child die of a disease like Tay-Sachs (where the child will die before age 5), you cannot possibly weigh in on genetic testing which may rule out your predisposition to pass on this disease.

Moreover, when I was pregnant with my youngest? They thought she had the genetic markers for Trisomy 21:  Down’s Syndrome. I did a amniocentesis to make sure if she did or not have it. The clinic I was at sent a genetic counselor in, and told me that if I wanted to not keep the baby, I didn’t have to. I was about 4-5 months along.

I chose to keep that child–whom is now 10. And she didn’t have Down’s Syndrome.

As I said before:  everyone has dirt on them. But you don’t get to bury someone else with it. As a person of faith that makes you a hypocrite and a Pharisee! You have to take the beam outta your eye FIRST.

I meant what I said in response to this post. That was  about the only thing I could do!  I meant that I am glad people’s hearts are being revealed with the passing of this bill. I am glad that she said what she did:  I see her heart. With that vision, that let me know the love of Christ that is supposed to be evident in her–clearly didn’t make it to this post.  Does that mean I don’t believe she doesn’t love God? No. I’m saying you can’t see God anywhere in this.

My Mama says it like this:  “Be careful what you say to people, because you never know who you might need.”

As I read it, I debated making a part three to this series. I debated to truly respond to this. It’s her page, she’s an adult. She can say what she likes, how she likes. This post wasn’t aimed at anyone. But, in the interest of being forthright, I had to respond to it. Here and there.

I really had to.

It has become far too easy in this nation to shame women. It is easy to let toxic masculinity influence legislation over the female form. Just like this bill does. I believe that real, healthy patriarchy encourages and protects women. Real masculinity isn’t intimidated by femininity.  It values women. Toxic masculinity and patriarchy seek to rule over women to the point the have no personhood or power.

Why is it okay that the right to have a child, should be determined by people whom have no biological capability to push one out?

If legislation like this is okay, then why is it that men–whom have the biological component to determine conception and sex of child–how are they not charged in a ‘commission’ of this type of crime?

This is where her rant falls short–it has no backing or bottom. If pre-martial sex/adultery is wrong–let it be wrong for women and men. I am tired of the brunt of decisions like this expected to be carried by women. For another woman, to say this? And stand on it? I mean–what can you do with that?

I give her the love of Christ, and keep moving. I don’t verbally spar with the unequipped. Lunacy doesn’t have ears. Again, we all got dirt. But, I refuse to bury someone with it. Otherwise, the world is a cemetery.

[images from author’s photo gallery]

My Heartbeat Bill, Part 2

*NSFW:  This piece was written in response to the passing of what is commonly known as the Heartbeat Bill in the state of Georgia. This is/was my real life experience and account. If you find yourself in need of support in regards to a similar circumstance, you are free to email me at theladyofharris@icloud.com. No woman should be shamed by her decisions.

-JBHarris

Image result for broken heart

 

I went to get an abortion on a bus.

 

I was told  to eat something before the procedure so I wouldn’t get or be sick. I took an apple with me that morning, when I really wanted a banana. I thought eating a banana that morning would tip my mother off that I was pregnant. But, days before, she told me to have a seat at the table and get a piece of paper.

My mother is a 40-year nurse. The first part of her career was in Labor and Delivery. She knew I was pregnant, I think. I think she wanted me to just tell her. I had asked her i there was a way the body could have it’s hormones so outta whack that you get sick. “Have a seat, okay?” My mother never said, “Okay.”  She told me the only way that could happen is illness or pregnancy. I wrote that word and my ears burnt. It was the want of not disappointing her that pushed me to remain silent. It was the disappoint I knew would come from my family that made me stay silent. It was the condemnation I thought I would get that thought it be best to be silent.

I was the Golden Girl, you see. Pretty, smart and going to do so much. So much potential. I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant before I had a career or a husband. Yet, that happened. It was judgement and my own condemnation that kept me quiet. And for years after. I walked to the bus stop in the same hoodie I went to Dr. Ferris’s office in. I took the #41 Lee bus to the #70 Grand bus to the clinic. I had my purse and the money for my abortion inside it. I was told to bring the money in either check or money order. No cash.

I ate my apple on the way to the bus stop, as if I was preparing or a dark-op mission. No emotion. The only thought was, “Go and get it done. Go and get it done.” I had already cried. I kept crying. I cried the night before. I held my Bible, and I cried. I told God I was sorry. I asked Him to forgive me. To help me. I told God this:

“If you don’t allow me to have another child, I understand.”

I walked to the bus, feeling knowing, that this was the first and last time I would let this happen to me. I thought that if I never got pregnant again, I wouldn’t be mad. I couldn’t. I thought God forgave me, and I was prepared to never be a mother–to never be a mother. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be a Mama then. I was murdering a child–an innocent. And I was prepared to give up the ability to have a baby, because I was letting this child die.

I walked from the bus stop on Grand and Forest Park. I remember how hungry I was. But, I was on a mission. I had to get this abortion. Nothing was going to stop me. The clinic had a talk wrought iron fence about 8 feet tall. At the gate, there was someone standing there. It was an older White woman in a dress, with a hat holding a sign that read:  THEY KILL BABIES HERE. I don’t remember her facial expression, but I remember she didn’t move towards me. And it was quiet. It was a group of people on the parking lot, but no one bothered me. I was lucky. I had seen enough documentaries, national news and Law & Order to know abortion clinics do get bombed. That providers are, can be killed. I knew that girls in my situation could be hurt, even killed. Yet, I went in.

The security officers greeted me, asking for my ID and appointment time. I gave them my ID and walked through a metal detector. Dominic said he would come with me, but I didn’t believe him. But I called him, and told him I was okay. I wanted him to be there. I didn’t want to be alone. I was still so sad that I used birthday money to do this.

I was there all day. All day.

I remember being herded into this sitting room with all these other desperate-looking women. I saw mothers with their heads wrapped up. I saw best friends being supportive. I saw an interracial couple–I fixated on them. I wanted Dominic’s arm to wrap around me like this blond young man did for his girlfriend.

I had to get height and weight. I had to pee in a cup, again putting a white cup in the mystic microwave to make sure I was pregnant. What was the most disturbing part was the ultrasound. There was this brunette White girl in a white Planned Parenthood t-shirt that escorted me to this room with stirrups. I remember they had to do a vaginal ultrasound to see how far along I was. She asked if I wanted to see the ultrasound. I turned my head, “No.” I heard the heartbeat, tried to block it out. The mission was to get the heartbeat out of me. I had to keep the mission, like all warriors. I couldn’t let my heart betray the mission.

I remember waiting, and being herded from room to room, with more ugly upholstered furniture. I was cold. I was quiet, I spoke to no one. I was, tried to be grave quiet. I was finally funneled into this room with like 6 other girls. The medical assistant was a Black girl in red scrubs that told us how to prepare for our procedure. She gave us all a gown, a pad with a big Kotex pad attached on the side and a medicine cup with 2 pills in it. One pill was to dilate the cervix. The other was a pain pill. I think it was a Percocet. While I was getting dressed, I noticed the room was filled with girls that looked like me. All Black. All pretty. All pregnant. All soon not to be pregnant.  One girl that sat on the couch in a gown was so pretty. She had a short cut, classes and had her legs crossed on the couch. She said this was her second abortion.

Second. 

I couldn’t imagine  doing this more than once. When I asked, I said it was my first abortion.

First. 

Saying that word made me feel sick. I wanted to hurry up and do this and leave. I waiting in the room, cold and half naked, and alone. When my name was called, I was lead to this small white room with a blue exam table. I was told to lay down and relax. There was a woman that stood next to me as the doctor came in. The older White man balding and white hair with glasses. He sat between my legs with the stool provided. I was told it would feel like ‘a deep pinch’. She held my hand, this angelic looking woman with glasses. I held my breath and she held my hand. I looked at her hand as she held it. I felt something cold and metal enter me, and then pull something out.

I was told the procedure would ‘evacuate the uterus.’ My baby was sucked out of me and was no more a part of me. The doctor said I did good, and I was done. He left and shut the door. The angel that held my hand asked how I felt. “Fine.” I said, being relieved and cheery. I sat up on the table, trying to swing my legs off to stand. I almost fell.

I was lead to a recovery room to rest for a few minutes before I was allowed to get dressed. I laid there, on this hard blue cushioned chair and thought. The same nurse came and got me to let me know I could leave. I could get dressed. I was herded with another girl into this living room area to discharge with aftercare and medication.

I had no insurance. I walked to this window, and was given a brown paper bag with an antibiotic in it with pain medicine. “For the next two weeks, showers no baths.” She sat at this small desk below the this open window. “Take one of these pills everyday until they are gone.” I watched her fill out my paperwork. “You need to come back in 3 weeks for a follow up appointment.” I had no intention on ever coming back. I smiled and took my bag and left.

I left. I wrapped my hoodie around my waist. I went home.

I didn’t see Dominic for a week. He said that he tried to come see me, but security wouldn’t let him in. Knowing what I know of him now, he’s an utter liar. He may not have even come there, let alone called to check on me. I remember I had sex with him during the time I was supposed to be abstaining, and taking these antibiotics. I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to feel like he loved me. And my body? I think Winter Santiaga from Coldest Winter Ever said it best, ‘it felt like dropping a pebble in the ocean.’

I stayed with Dominic a year and more after that. He said that he owed me a baby. He told me that he loved me. We tried to move past it, to forget it. But I couldn’t. I cried in his arms one night, just wailing. I realized what I had done–what he convinced me would be best. After everything I had done, endured with him, I expected him to marry me. I wanted to be his wife. He promised me it would be better. That he would make it up to me. The thing about that? I refused to be caught up in this again. I got on birth control–and stayed on it.

Every month I got my shot (this contraception shot called Lunell). Spermicide every time.

When we broke up a year later, I hated myself. I did. I was so sad. I had given up so much to be his girl. But this? My baby? Our, no, my baby?! Ah, nall. It wasn’t until I met the Able Unshakeable did I know just how broken I was. And how empty I became, and how unloved I was.

Don’t judge a woman that had an impossible situation, with an impossible choice, with impossible outcomes. Before you condemn her, or send her to Hell, think about if that was you or someone you knew.

Everyone got dirt, don’t be so quick to bury somebody else.

 

[image from bbo.co.uk]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Heartbeat Bill, Part 1

*NSFW:  This piece is autobiographic, and written in response to the passing of  what is  commonly known as the Heartbeat Bill in the state of Georgia. Unless you are a woman faced with this decision, do not be so quick to dismiss those of us–yes, us–whom have had to walk this decision out. Telling no one.  All names are used. No punches pulled.

-JBHarris

 

Image result for broken heart

 

I was 19 when I found out I was pregnant.

I was about 6 months from my 20th birthday. The young man I had been seeing knew before I did. So he said. I remember how tired I felt. I remember how hungry I was. Like all the time. I remember I got the reminder in the mail about my Well-Woman Exam. I scheduled it, praying that I would not be pregnant.

Dr. Ferris’s office in Clayton, Missouri was sterile. It was like the front room of my grandmother’s house. It was a place that you weren’t meant to be comfortable. I filled out the intake form and waited for my name to be called. When the cheery voice from the oak door, I put my hands in my grey sweatshirt and followed the White girl with blonde hair to the empty room.

This nameless girl in the pretty scrubs took my weight and asked me how I was. She asked what brought me in. “Well- woman exam.” I answered the harang of questions that followed.

“Are you sleeping okay?”

Yes.

“Any chronic pain?”

No.

“Are you sexually active?”

Yes.

“Are you pregnant?”

I paused, mouth dry. Blonde ponytail looked at me. I scrunched my face and made the could be/maybe/a little bit sign with my fingers. As if she were a magician, she Blonde ponytail produced this specimen cup with a white lid. “Okay, go ahead and pee in this for me. Leave it in the metal window in the restroom.” She walked me to the bathroom, I followed her in my white Tweety bird shirt, jeans and sneakers. Blonde ponytail said to return to the exam room when I was done.

I went into the maroon colored stall, deft at peeing in this cup and putting it in the designated area behind this small metal door. It was like a mystic pee microwave. It was life-changing, would be life-changing.

I walked back to my room, sat on the edge of the examination table. I remember looking of my denim clad thighs, wishing my was empty. Hoping it was empty. I closed my eyes, tried to imagine telling my mother that I was pregnant. Pregnant, unmarried, with no bank account or driver’s license. I was pregnant by a man that she didn’t even like, or want me with. I thought about having to tell this man, that I believed loved me, that I was carrying his child.

Dr. Ferris came into the room, her tone devoid of any warmth. I remember her being this petite, brunette White woman with a white lab coat longer than she was tall. She looked more like an angry math teacher than a OB/GYN. I remember she spoke to me. I think I spoke back to her in the same curt tone. She had her back to me, fiddling with and on the small white counter about the size of a microwave cart.  I was looking t my thighs again, swinging my feet as I did when I was a smaller girl. Kicking the air to try and find footing in a stressful situation.

“I have the result of your pregnancy test.” she didn’t turn around. “It’s positive.” My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. The way she said it? The tone was if I was about to be put in time out! The well-woman exam was a blur. I remember her doing my breast exam. I remember how tender my breasts where. I remember telling her that I didn’t know what I was going to do, or how to tell my mother.

I thought about the conversation I had with the father of my child. He had a son, and was barely taking care of him. We talked about keeping the baby. I wondered if I could really do that. Could I really be someone’s mother at 19? She left the room after the exam and told me to get dressed and follow her to her office. No warmth, all the charm of a prison guard.

With my protective hoodie on, I sat in her office. She sat in this Alice In Wonderland sized mahogany chair. She told me my due date would be sometime in January 2001. “I’m not going to tell you what your options are. You already know.” Dr. Ferris said. I didn’t want to cry in this office with this small version of the Red Queen. I willed the tears back, and my throat was hot and dry. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell my mom.” I told her. She wished me luck, and I left as quick as I had come.

The father of my child was the 20-year-old named Dominic. I called him from the phone in the waiting area. I told him I was at the doctor’s office and that I was pregnant. I remember him saying, “Okay. So what do you want to do?” I told him as clinically as I could, “We do what we planned.” I couldn’t mouth, or say, the word abortion. I couldn’t believe I had even considered it. The fact is, it was him that suggested it! I said to him that I wanted to keep the baby. My faith told me that abortion was murder; premartial sex was wrong. Due to my inability to not be unnaked around him, I got pregnant. He told me if we were to give the baby up for adoption this exact quote:  “We would just have to go back and find it anyway.”

That devastated me. I cried for days. Days. I was sick. My head hurt constantly. And there was no support from Dominic. None. The money to pay for this abortion came from birthday money an ex-boyfriend sent me. I had gotten home that afternoon on the bus, and relieved the house was quiet. At the time, there was a Planned Parenthood on Forest Park Avenue here in St. Louis. I looked up the number in the phone book, and called. I got some information from the operator that was more cheery than Dr. Ferris would ever be.

She asked if I was pregnant. I told her I was. She asked me how far along I was. “I don’t know.” I told her that I had just found out. “If you want a proceedure, from 6-12 weeks is $320.” I closed my eyes, still listening. “From 12-20 weeks, its $520.” I told her I didn’t think I was 12 weeks. “I think I’m 6 weeks.” I said softly. She told me she could schedule something within the next 2-3 weeks. I remember it was a Tuesday that we settled on. “Come early before the protestors get here.” Protestors? The thought hadn’t entered my mind that there would be anti-abortion activists there! It didn’t dawn on me that I could be hurt, the facility bombed or any other dangerous thing to cause harm to me if/when I went! “Okay.” She repeated my appointment time. And I hung up the phone, feeling nothing–and everything.

 

[image from bbc.co.uk]

He Worships…Me.

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There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

I have become something else beyond beautiful

and woman and feminine.

I have become something more divine

simply by being all that I am to him.

Full, supple and in vision unfiltered.

 

He drinks the sunlight off my skin,

careful and cautious as to where and

when to apply his lips to chosen skin.

When my mouth opens to greet him

with such gratitude, his eyes memorize me.

 

Almost as if I will fade away as ghosts and hants oft do.

 

His hands on me are home.

Welcoming and quiet at first.

The need of me, without me near

or inside me, overwhelming.

 

The divine of our together so potent

that he pulls me often from my seated

perch between the power of the manhood

unsheathed and hidden inside me, to sit

where he calls ‘my throne.’

 

The suckling of sweeter flesh,

with my thighs fixed to his cheeks

all of me opens and floods his mouth.

Moans as song, echo from wall to wall.

My hands on the top of his head guiding

his mouth to all his tongue found to be

treasure.

 

Enjoy, he said.

Let me please all of you, he said.

I need you, he said.

I cannot die without knowing how you taste, he told me.

 

He told me I was his ache.

His cure.

A goddess housed in melanin.

 

How could  I deny one so intent on being in love with me?

 

There is nothing that he won’t do for me, if I just whisper it.

 

He has decided to live at my feet…and I will let him.

 

(c) Janelle Fallon, 5.13.2019

 

[image from Pintrest]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Part Of The Knot-Part 2: More Than A Day

My dream wedding dress is a Vera Wang, and it is more than $5000.00. Without a veil. No shoes. Just the dress–cloth, dye and thread–is as much as a used car.

But, I found this dress while I was dating a man that tried to kill me in the apartment we lived in with his father and his girlfriend. I thought if I just loved him hard enough, he would see how badly he had treated me, and I would get my happily ever after. So, with that goal in mind, I looked for a dress.

From the dress, I registered with theknot  and was determined to make this man love me. I wanted him to love me like I loved him. It wasn’t until that relationship was over did I realize how askew my focus was. And just how detrimental that is.

 

This isn’t the exact dress, but it’s damn close. 

 

I tease people that I grew up as a pagan. I didn’t come to knowledge of faith in Christ until I was 8. I was baptized at 16. I wasn’t brought up in a house that made or put God as its center. But. after 16? I knew that sex before marriage was wrong. With that guilt, compiled with a me sleeping with my ex on a regular basis? I knew that marrying him would make everything go away. All the guilt. All the shame. Once I put on this white dress, this ring and told God I would be his wife–my absolution would be complete.

But here’s the rub.

It’s deeper than chastity. It’s deeper than spending more focus on a dress than on a relationship. The rub was prizing the decor and decorations over a lifetime. Being with someone in a dating relationship is much different that being with someone in a marriage. In the pursuit of trying to be chose (which I’ll discuss later), I put up with behavior I wouldn’t think of putting up with now.

I wanted him to see how strong I could be. Just like the gold in the ring I wanted. I wanted to keep myself pretty, always eye-catching. Just like the diamonds I envisioned I would wear. I loved him, I forgave him, and accepted anything that he gave. I wanted him to see me as adaptable, like any circle. Like any ring.

Marriage is more than a wedding.

When people ask me what I think about relationships (which is actually pretty often), my advice is the same. I suppose now, with the most toxic relationship I have ever had being over almost 20 years ago, I have a unique vantage point. I stayed with a man that tried to kill me because he said he loved me. I stayed with him because after everything we had gone through, after everything he promised me, he owed me a ring.

He owed me dress, a day and the chance to celebrate us. That would be the proof that he loved me. It would be proof that I could maintain a relationship. It would be proof that I could withstand the ebbs and flows of a committed relationship. It was proof that I was wife material. A wedding, the wedding–my wedding–would be the ultimate trophy. It would have been a win for us. I would be the coda of everyone that didn’t think he was good enough for me. It would be a middle finger to everyone that thought we couldn’t wouldn’t last.

The altar wasn’t a culmination. It was a finish line.

Marriage should be a culmination.

A wedding is a party.

Marriage is what you do when no one is looking. The staying together when the world around you goes to shit. You shouldn’t have to prove how much you love someone by how much you take. Love doesn’t require being emotionally trampled. Being someone’s wife doesn’t mean that you need to prove your ability to get back up after being knocked down.

Marriage doesn’t change who people are, not really. It fortifies and reveals who they are! It shows if you have the ability to compromise, to be selfless or selfish. Can you compromise? Can you, do you hold grudges? Can you put do what is necessary because it has to be done? And the most important thing to consider:  can you want the best for someone whether it benefits you or not?

Can you allow this person that you chose, and whom has chosen you, to grow? To mess up? To forgive and be forgiven by? Do you have the stamina to really love someone?

If you don’t, if you cannot fathom such a thing beyond sex, then don’t bother picking a dress. Or buying a ring.

You ain’t ready.