We are officially five days out from #SBGDay.
As I’ve reflected on a potential birthday post of lessons learned and moments experienced during my 32nd year on Earth, I reviewed the last year of material on the blog. While I’m still digging for teachable lessons, I invite you all to re-live Year 32’s Greatest Hits.
With you, I can be a goddess. This room, a temple. We can stain the sheets with worship and disturb the neighbors with prayers until we’re overcome with glory and pass out, sweaty and spent.
Am I susceptible to falling like anyone else? Of course. But since solitude is my default, I am only willing to make exceptions for the exceptional. While my year without sex is more circumstantial than intentional, it’s been a powerful affirmation: If it ain’t what I want, I’m good.
This is what intelligent people do, isn’t it? Litter our minds with drafts of edited history–how it could have gone our way ‘if only.’ In our quests for healing, we incessantly pick at scabs that mend themselves when allowed to breathe.
Despite my best effort, I’d lost. The last thing I heard before I surrendered was the opening instrumental of Rihanna’s ‘Skin’ as you slid inside me for the last time.
Rashad makes sonically perfect R&B. For those unaware of his sound, think The-Dream with less bravado, more soul and introspection, and a whole lot of bass.
As each ‘follow me on SnapChat’ request slides down my Twitter feed, I wonder: Have I reached the Final Frontier of Social Media?
Fuck curated photos featuring Macbooks, muffins, white duvets and coffee cups strategically placed in an Instagram-sized square.
I am numb. Trayvon gutted me. Mike Brown pierced me. Tamir–murdered in a park I drove by every day for three years–settled it. I am not safe.
What words would they have for their prissy, precocious baby; all grown up, learning the hard lessons of love and womanhood?
This is who you’ve always been. You have my permission to be it.
Enjoy. Meanwhile I’ll be trying to figure out what exactly (if anything) I learned this year.