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…

 

 

 

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]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Blackness Is Ongoing.”-The Power Of This Will By Undoing

I am in this space of radical love and self-acceptance. In my devouring of the fire of Feminista Jones; the medicine at the shoulder, knee, yea, hands of Toni Morrison; I came across the sister oracle, Morgan Jerkins.

This book had been on my radar for over a year. It had been in my literature orbit, and hidden among other Amazon needs. However, now, this time, I bought it.

What I got in the about 8-hours of the author herself, was a dual realization of my power as a Black woman. And the invisible chains that held, pulled and sought to destroy me.

I found myself nodding when she talked about the paradox of being a smart, quiet, Black girl. I teared up remembering my middle school self: smart as hell, awkward, with parents that prized grades over social status. The struggle with sexuality as a Black woman versus the idea (even appearance) of being fast. I was mad as fuck with her as she relayed her frustration with college acceptance; the loss of her father and hiding in the depths of academic success. I clasped my hands, as if she could feel them, when she talked about her faith. I even teared up at her *manifesto in Chapter 9.

The power of this book is it’s willingness to confront the joys and struggles of being a Black woman. She rips off the Band-Aids with laser precision and pulls no punches.

While reading it, I found Morgan on Twitter. I tweeted her about how the book effected me. How I wished I had something like this 25 years ago when I was a girl and trying navigate woman spaces I was thrust into. I had to examine myself and alla my stuff as the choreopoem goes.

In, with, that examination, came a strange empowerment. The further acceptance of my Blackness. Of forgiving women in my family whom did only what they knew to do in order to keep me safe and tame. I no longer felt that my experiences were alien.

This book was a reminder of self, my entire self. Of allowing my daughters a freedom I never tasted. I was reminded my soft heart and quiet nature were never a detriment, but a tool. I was reminded just as Phylicia Rashad said:

“Your whole self is such a treasure.”

I had forgotten that. Like any good writer, Morgan made me remember. For that, I am thankful.

Thank you, Morgan Jerkins.

*The manifesto in Chapter 9 is one of the boldest, most vulnerable things I have read pertaining to loving yourself as a Black woman. I am glad I have this book on Audible so I can go back and reference it on blue days. The days where my magic, my swag or my sway feel less than. Where I feel less than. Where I am low, in need a level of refilling God-deep. One of the joys of being a writer is you get to see and feel deeply. With that depth, the refilling, too, must be just as deep.

Love & Possession: The Dark Set: (Week 4) BonusWhat Daddy Wanted

The collar on my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How chosen and cherished I am.

How none are as I am to be.

He feels and fills the ripples his

Voice causes once housed

And held in all that he claims

Is, was his.

Does he know that in his taking

Of me, even in thought my mind

Races to please him from wherever

I am?

At his whisper

And then shutting off of

Water I am his warm towel

To drink and dry every drop

Of water graced to flow

Over him…

Until my tastes and senses

Are full of him.

The collar around my neck always

Reminds me how far I can go.

How hard to ride.

How wide to open.

When to clench.

When to just hold

Every inch of him hard and twitching

In my mouth

Or swallow all he contains.

It lets me know, for all my prowess…

I am still beneath him.

As I long to always be.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019

Love & Possession (Week 4)-Always More

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I had never wanted to be held.

I needed something deeper than that.

I found that in him.

 

I wanted touches

deep enough to answer aches

and quiet howls born of

lost and lust.

 

I wanted a fire.

I needed heat.

I needed what I

should not be forced

to say.

 

How does one state

that what they have been

given does not reach?

 

How can it be explained

that I thirst for waters

few have the inner valor

to find or divine?

 

Yet, they are there. I have seen and tasted.

 

In these waters,

along these shores

no place in these oceans

is shallow.

 

From the depths of

this oceans,

with eyes dark and stormy

as hurricane skies,

he has taken my hand.

 

And allowed me to swim.

 

 

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019

 

More Than Words Can Say

He said I’m perfect

On my knees,

Quiet and stormy.

When he asks me

How much I love him.

“More than words can ever say…”

With a stroking of my cheek,

the grace of

All masters of kittens,

He grabs my hair and

My eyes close.

My body becomes

A lit match, smoldering

that he touched me

Again.

“Show me.”

I grin, and open my mouth.

The sweetest yes I know.

(c) Janelle Fallon, 4.2019

You Deny Me, Deny Yourself

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I had lie to him of course when I said that I had felt nothing.

When I told him the hold that he had on me was fleeting, something out of a romance novel of Harlequin or Nora Roberts. That is until, always until I tried dating again. Until I tried to forget him.

I saw him everywhere.
When I tried to date, move on from the depth that was my love for Michael. The first date I had gone on, I mustered up the will to kiss him.  The first kisses on those first few dates I had gone on were like ice on my lips. When I decided to wipe away his touch, and the fires the created with the touch of someone else, those touches were never warm enough. No penetration was deep enough, and of course, I faked it. I hated for these poor saps not to have gotten their money’s worth. I believe in being a lady about most things. This is no exception.

They used me to be a pretty toy on their arms, I knew that.  But I used them to forget him. I had to forget him. I wanted to be able to erase him. And if being under another woman could, would make a man forget–then me being on top of one should make me forget him.

Yet, there was more than one I had pinned under me, secure inside my body, yet I still saw his face. I still had to think about him to even reach anywhere near a climax. Once. Twice. Three times this happened to me. Dinner. Flirting. Cold kisses. Lukewarm lay. Uber home.

For months, I resisted calling him. I refused to give in to him. I fought it. I fought against every cell of myself that knew what he said was true. I belonged to him. I was his.

He owned me.

In the shower, right before my birthday in October, I heard his voice in my head. I felt his touch over me, insistent and hot as the water from the shower. I felt him. As real and warm and deep as the ocean he had taken me to when we first dated three years ago. I could only bare up against the shower wall, moaning. The sounds from my chest and throat more like a howl. Wounded and pained noises. All that was in me, needed him. Had to have him. Needed him with me again.

In leaving the shower, I wrapped the heavy dark blue towel around me, my newly dyed dark hair sticking to my caramel brown shoulders. I bit my lip as the tears rolled down my face. I had tried to will them back, afraid of what would happen if I unleashed them. I clutched my towel, rocking slightly on my Queen sized bed. I told myself not to call him. Gave myself the reasons not to call him.

It was so intense with him.

He wanted to much of me.

I wasn’t ready to commit.

And the scariest thing  I had to admit was. I didn’t know how to love him, because I didn’t know to accept all he had for me. In the fear of what he wanted, I didn’t have room inside me to house all that he wanted. I wasn’t ready.

Yet trying to forget him had become inhumane. The pain of not being near him was becoming abhorrent  I stared at the phone on its base, warring with my heart, logic and body. I lay there, listening to my wrist watch tick from inside the nightstand I stared at. Every second, unbearable without him. I missed him. Touching him. Tasting him. The tears rolled down the my cheeks, indistinguishable from the water still sparse on the tops of my breasts. I cried.

Naked and in the world all by myself, I cried.

It all had become too much. A year without him had become too much. I crumbled and picked up the receiver and dialed his number my reflect and memory. Once. Twice. Three times. My heart was in my chest. I was still crying. I knew then what it was like to be ripped apart. This feeling had to be it.

I had no shame. I was aching. I was prepared to cry on his answering machine. A blubbering, wounded mess on his voicemail. I closed my eyes, resigned to being without him one more day when he answered.  I heard his giggle before he answered, soothing me. “I knew you would come back to me.” I heard the smirk and cockiness in his voice. I shivered so deeply I felt in my core self. “You belong to me, Ava. Where else could you go?”