How I Got Here

At three am I used to call on anybody but God to help me. 

I'd scream for sadness to unswallow my spirit in tubs of water I wished would drown it all and then me.  

I’d dip my body in coconut oil, then shea butter, hoping to heal much more than outer layer scabs and scars.

Mama said, to get Here, you have to talk about it. 

Don't forget to include the parts of your soul you tuck underneath your bones. 

Mention the parts you build muscles to sit on top of. The parts you keep smothered in smiles and passive aggression.
Divulge in your cycle of choosing ungrateful lovers with God complexes and smelly sheets.

Talk about the semester love earned you three F’s.

Don't skip the fact that you love lies so much you shunned the truth for two years.

Make no excuses for your difficulty to express aggression when offended. 

Dwell on your habit of ending up in rooms filled to their rims with women your lover has tasted. 

Mention your struggle to unhook yourself from their portrait of your promiscuity.  

Talk about the subconscious jealousy you harbor for  your best friend.

Rant about his ego, and how you twisted yourself into despondency to protect it. 

Bring up the walls of your room and how many bodies they've grown to know the curves of in the past six months. 

Admit you like the Kardashians and you live for the opportunity to carry a bundle of emotions obligated to shower you with love. Your week is not complete without love and hip hop Mondays. To you, Kanye is not in the sunken place but hurt by being forgotten by those who claimed they loved him.

 When every part of my distinguished self had been released, I ended up here. 

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