I am raw-feeling, polished yet unkempt, and alone. Woefully alone. Loneliness is relative - more like a floating organza cloak: slow, impending, soft, suffocating. The friends I thought were friends haven't been so friendly; I wonder just how many tomorrows any of us have left. I started to look at love with a little more than a side-eye and see it as hopeless again. Not hope-void but "less" than I had before. I ended 2021 knocking down my own Tower this time and I now sit in the rubble. Not quite singularly, as I know there is much more refuse to come, I'm awash with the ashes of my past. Is this how the newborn feels? Empty, but like Level 1, not Level 10 with everything lost needing to start again. I feel reborn but there's little rejoice. I am my caretaker now. Nobody gave me the tools. God granted me the wisdom but my "past life" is still visible in rearview. I am disgusted, feeling disgusting, yet still so divine. So why does depression still speak so loudly to me? When the truth is cast clearly and I can now walk away, why do I feel like a villain? Every virtue I ever had seems so squat now. What are the rules? How do I make them? Where is my energy? Where is my reward? Why is it still all on me? Even they asked young Jesus to make the wine for the wedding. What exploitation, what "abuse" of power under the sake of obedience. I didn't want to be my grandfather's secret anymore than I wanted to be my parents' therapist. Yet we're here now. 25. Dysmorphic views due to child abuse; anxious mentalities thanks to domestic violence; depression and shame for taking two decades and five years to have it be clear. Gratitude to finally understand. Fatigue from having to be my own hero again. Bitterness for still acting as everyone else's. If I died tonight, who will save who? If I died right now, who ever tried to save me?

I have so many feelings. I understand why nobody "intervened" but now I'm like this. Damaged. Ruined. Unsure. To think I suppressed and repressed so much, exemplifying precisely how amazing I'd be if trauma were not a factor. Now who helps me sift through it to be better? It's all on me. It's all on any one person isn't it? I've never had the luxury - the Birthright - of a concrete tribe, support team, "family" if you will. I found out young what the price of wanting one is. Your body, your mind, your morals, a nonconsensual loyalty.

I don't know how much has been blocked, I just know the parts I remember are now no more a secret. I know I finally have a little support (God said I can't do it all alone). Though that support will be the final undoing (the final salvation?), maybe it's all I need to be freed. For real, finally. Maybe it's what will grant me a new life or a peaceful death or simply just my way to carry on. Move on. Move.

In this moment, patience mocks me. I want to cry but no tear dares escape. I want to cut but the New Year asks something novel of me. So I write, searing in deep pain physically, mentally, and emotionally - a trifecta. My muscles are swollen and burning, a metaphor of sorts. My life truly is tender to the touch right now.

It just all makes so much sense! Why I don't like me, why I fear my own body. My own beauty has been a weapon against me - I've never even known it could be. Betrayed by my own light; ransacked and bagged up like a body meant only for its meat. Not the mind, not the movement of heart, no magnificence. I thought I was ugly; I was only blind to myself, not the actions of other's against me.

Against me. I try to block the flashbacks and now I understand why I'm mentally ill - there's been too much against me. I tried to survive by making it okay. Laughing it away. Praying it away. Crying, "okaying", reasoning, writing it all away. In a way, I made a way, but the wrong ways still found me. I haven't been right in a while.

Exhaustion. Excuses. Energy-vampires. Enlightenment - I've been seeing the light a lot more clearly. My eyes hurt, but it is better a pained sight than lies towards a softened collision. That impact won't stay gentle once the history gets reported. I digress, if God be merciful, the "rest" will not hinder or hurt me like it has for most of my life.

I guess, I just want to know: can I live now?

~nxw

Opening Quotes:

“‘Me too’ implies ‘you too’ and that’s why I’m sharing this.” ~kgn

“This is a marathon and I'm aware / I been playing it back from a lack of promotions / I was never one for the bragging and boasting / I guess I was hoping the music would speak / For itself, but the people want everything else / Ok, no problem, I'll show up on everyone album / You know what the outcome will be” ~J. Cole (“A Lot” feat.)

_______________TW: assault mention (“r-word”)___________________

#WhatAssaultStoleFromMe - So, in 2019 I had a TV show and due to an assault that occurred between myself and someone on my production team, that dream (seemingly) died. I usually take things “on the chin” but truthfully, something I couldn’t quite acknowledge broke me. On a recent trip to Cali, I took shrooms with a medicinal intention, realizing some deeeeep shit. I obviously know I have depression but being on my recovery journey for the last few years, I had not realized just how depressed I still was/am. It despairs me to think I’d have these issues “forever” so I try my best to “acknowledge and ignore” if you will to get through my day. It’s “worked” I guess but I recognized artistically/professionally just how much that has played against me. As I write this, I have a flashback playing in my mind of how my assailant used to tell me to not to be so vocal about my mental illness stuff. I listened, to an extent, because I thought he had my well-being at heart. Truthfully, he was just afraid to confront his own demons. Nevertheless, I find I’ve been subconsciously punishing myself all this time. Why? For thinking I should have “known better” or even hoping that the strength of my character, valiant work effort, and dynamic art skills would speak for themselves - that I didn’t have to “do” anymore or rather could share less. Instead I refocused on what I thought healing resembled: doubling down on holistic efforts, finding better mental health management, fighting all the harm urges (even publicly vocalizing them). It wasn’t until NOW that I realized that’s HALF the work. Before my TV show, I took pride in my social media posts. It was still annoying lol, but I did it for me and the pride of my own greatness. It’s as if the assault amplified my feelings of low inadequacy to a point where I felt like y’all didn’t care about seeing my stuff and it didn’t matter. “I” didn’t matter. Yet, something else comes to mind with that - my assailant saying, “I rather lose you as a friend than a business partner,” which hurt like hell but really underscores how lit I am, lmao. I think that’s what it was too - subconsciously, perhaps I was also trying to hurt him (and the world) by keeping all this “littitude” to myself. Recently, I performed a new body of work for a fundraiser and the feeling from that performance hasn’t left me. It felt like duty and I mean that in the most loving way. I ended my set on Cloud-9 and wondered how I’ve had such gaps in my solo career over the last few months. The greatest sensation I’ve ever had/felt is from knowing my work could inspire, empower, and/or help others. I nearly cried when spittin’ the other day - which is a rarity. I was overwhelmed with the amalgam of my own history/emotions, knowing that someone out there could/would be listening with the potential to feel helped or “saved” by my art; just like I have been by the arts, and just like people have privately, graciously admitted to me from witnessing my own. I hate being a braggart but really I just fell prey to “toxic humility” - undervaluing myself SO deeply that I hid altogether.

2018-19 even though I was still dealing with cutting-based self-harm, I felt like #theshit professionally! I was taking chances (y’all recall my mini freestyle series?!), posting more consistently, and overall just feeling freer as a creative (dare I say, human). Losing my show embarrassed me. Though that’s showbiz and pilots sometimes don't even happen, it was a major hit to Spirit and Ego for me. Then not too soon after that I joined college for the first time therefore it was easy to say, “I’m going to refocus on craft honing, come back better later.” Though not untrue, I find a level of “excuse” there. I’m being mindful to not be hard on myself but there’s a slight bitterness. My choice to go to college still stands to be one of the best I ever made for myself - it heightened my prowess as a musician and opened other doors. Yet, in hindsight, even though I subverted expectations by becoming a Music major (a proud choice still), I find I still fell into a place of being the “expectant”. Meaning, “falling in line”, doing “what I’m good at”, being a student. It fulfilled me to an extent. Despite maintaining my A-student standing, winning scholarships, making Dean’s List, even being a Club Prez and getting PAID by CUNY due to being that “fuego”, there was an emptiness I didn’t fully admit to. It was easy to write it off as, “Girl, you always depressed. You diagnosed, remember?!” but truthfully it was deeper than that. I did the best in my arts-based classes like Music & Scriptwriting; I felt creatively blocked outside of that. Anything else was a major chore, so much so that I had started to break down. I ultimately withdrew from the majority of my classes last semester, making it out by teeth-skin with an A in my only “kept” class - Music Production. Then despite not wishing to, with affirmation from my psychiatrist I took this Fall semester (2021) off. I decided I’d return Spring 2022 but honestly, now I don’t know. My mom believes I should take this whole academic year, returning Fall 2022 if need be. I just want to graduate (at least enjoy some more perks) but frankly, I am at a crossroads discerning the sign directions.

The truth is I don’t need school, at least not in the traditional sense. My resume and expertise truly speak for themselves. Everybody, even/especially pros, need consistent practice and training, but as someone on SSI (something I’m transparent about), going to school was the easiest way to acquire those. Think of someone in school on a sports scholarship so they can get training for major leagues - same premise. I’ve wanted to be a graduate (ideally Ivy League) my entire life only to realize that too has been TOO wrapped in my self-worth. Beyond this, I’m recognizing just how surface-level I have been - not just the last three or so years but my whole life. “It’s not that bad. :) “ *cuts self because hurting deeply* “I’ll be okay. :) “ *tries to kill myself to make it “okay”* LOL - I laugh with a wry empathy because I unintentionally toxic positivity’ed my whole life. Despite being Black I acknowledge I had privileges such as living in a house or having married parents. I also acknowledged those things weren’t perfect as I witnessed and unfortunately fell prey to my parents’ domestic violences. I had scars they made which I smiled away before creating my own…so I now reflect here at a dusky 6AM how that ideology subconsciously found its way to me and never actually left… 2019 I grit and bared my rape trauma, “chalked it up to the game”, even decided punching my assailant in the face (rumoredly chipping his admittedly stellar smile) was enough payback on its own. I was still “elevating” right? I was a college student now! Beginning of 2020 I moved out “on my own” with a roommate; oh, yes, we are lit out here! Right? Sure, but that was only half the story. Despite these accomplishments and the victory of cutting cessation (which frankly, came from intuitive guidance and not even my own “desire”), I still felt a “missing” element. There was an episode of “Tuca & Bertie”, the one about Bertie being hurt at Jelly Lakes as a kid, that busted me wide open my Freshman year. I remember I had been very “laggy” during that period with no clarity as to why. That ep. did for me what the “Switched at Birth” episode about Bay’s ordeal with Tank had done for me years ago regarding a different assault incident; it clarified just how deeply my pain went. In that time, that was enough. It always had been, I thought. Alas, it wasn’t.

The late Suzzanne Douglas, aka Professor Douglas, acted as a mentor for me. I’m sure I wasn’t the sole one but her and I would have 2-3hr long private conversations about life. Frankly, she would irritate me LOL but in a loving, chiding way, like a close aunt could. She would tell me, “Do the work,” and I would frustratedly reply, “but I’m depressed, Prof.! You don’t get it, I would if I could and I’ve been trying with no success,” yet her Aries self would persist. She believed in me fiercely and I wonder how when she didn’t even have the opportunity to see the best I could offer. Now she “never will” but I am immensely gratified that God ushered her into my life as He had. I can nearly feel a faint smile from [the] Beyond, like, “Yes, Ny! You finally get it!” I hope I do. We would discuss how we had to “do the work” as people through exhaustion, illness, and toll for generations - I really am no different. The thing is, “the work” I thought she meant is not the work I figured. We did speak on basics like eating right and meditating but I think what she really was driving at is the radical verve of valuing yourself. Considering how she passed and what she had going on for herself despite that, this understanding resonates. One of those, “I wish you had just said THAT,” moments for me, but I digress, maybe she did. Point being, when I took my shroom trip, I had a reflection over the ancestors, “which one I’d be” so-to-speak. I used to devoutly believe I’d be a “jump-shipper”. Then, I attuned more to the idea of a “radical enjoyer”, finding time to sneak away at night, cakewalking in hidden cabins. I started to believe myself as a “status quo on rebel flow” type. That’s what I thought. Then I realized, in a California Uber, that I hated both of those realities. I thought it awesome they could find their joy in secret but honestly, I was unsettled. I don’t want joy to be a secret - that’s not freedom to me. Making a way of no way for sanity-sake is one thing, but conflating it to being the “best” is not only invalidating but dangerous in its own right. Then it occurred to me: I’m a runner, and again, I mean that in the best way possible.

Sure, when orchestrated in a more toxic mindset, I may run away from myself but when done with positive/holistic intention, it is indeed what has been saving me. 2020 I had other issues to untangle such as housing instability, toxic relationship dynamics, and simply trying to continue being what I imagined as my “best” (a great student with gigs on the side). 2021, once I was more stable and alone, the onslaught of my PTSD viciously ensued. I felt so suicidal in February and knew I was about to break a spiritual covenant so God intervened and I miraculously found an Ayahuasca retreat in Mexico. Mission: absorb Mama Aya’s lessons and HEAL once and for all, specifically from flashbacks of the rape and my assailant. I recall the shamans, an amazing group of Columbians who had been doing this work for decades, told us that Mama Aya’s teachings would come over time, not all at once. I looked forward to that, hoping I would recognize the lessons as they fell upon me (I count this reflection as one <3). My Aya & Mexico journey is its own tale to recount but the premise being, just the action of trusting myself and my Intuition *that* intensely brought me a healing I couldn’t even fathom! Not only was it my first solo trip out of the country, it was also, I’d say, my most honest attempt at healing - at finding freedom. I felt the need for escape like it was being called on by the Beyond itself and assuredly, that hunch was on the money. Similarly, like the ancestors, nary a person knew besides those “needing to”. Somehow someone did discover this and wound up “putting a hex on me” so-to-speak but that too is its OWN story, LOL! The fact remaining is I know in my heart I would have tried to kill myself again if I had not gone. Depression is and has been my “master” for so long but I can’t run away from or “leave” my body. How do you vanquish a bully within you? That’s what I am still learning. I acknowledge that even more now.

It was prayer that the experience would stay strongly enough so I wouldn’t feel as suicidal or broken anymore and for awhile it had! However, “Life be Life’in’” so it didn’t last. Months later, strong suicidal urges resumed, flashbacks persisted, and truly I started to really recognize, “Yo, I can’t and won’t be able to live if I have to keep feeling like this the rest of my life.” I knew I couldn’t “run away to Mexico” every time I was hurting yet I still couldn’t access help with a comparable feeling. Meanwhile, I am trying to create art but if it goes well, I’m not posting it or only posting in a 24hr Story; if it went “badly” or not as planned I’d shrug it off as inconsequential (the girl who used to keep every scrap organized understanding a failed attempt could be a success later on…). When I felt the urge to self-harm in a way stronger than I had in years, I utilized the urge to give myself piercings that I’d been wanting for a while. Perhaps not the wisest move, lol, I felt invigorated and like I was once again taking my fate into my own hands. That too had me on a high for weeks until I had an unfortunate incident that led to one of them rejecting. This too became a theme - I would “try” then a Tower moment would ensue. For anyone unaware, the Tower refers to a tarot card that implies a breaking down of something in one’s life. Often seen negatively, the beauty in the Tower is that what dies can leave room for a [re]birth of something better! This year has been a Tower year for me but it is now in December that I see the energy of what that really meant/resembled for me (Selah).

So to bring it all back, I’ve been toxically humble, not just for the last few years but my entire life. I know the roots of that: I always tried to empower others but they didn’t feel their power so it made it seem as if I was mocking or lying to them. To not hurt anyone, I dimmed my light - you know, tried to show we’re on level-ground, “equals”. Truly this is how I believed and frankly still do; if you are untapped potential, that doesn’t make you “less than”, it just means you’ve got some stuff to “show out”. I have done this, to a degree, my entire life. I KNOW I’m talented as fuck. I just also “knew” I didn’t have to be so “loud about it” even if it’s coming from a good place. That was nice and all but truly, it was inconsiderate and unkind towards myself and anybody who DID see me and find power/inspiration in my truth and art. I’ve apologized to them, but to myself I owe the biggest one. I have also made this apology before but as I stated with the shrooms (& will one day expound with the Aya), I found a *deeper* understanding of what that all means/meant. Moreover, just as a 25-year old, I see that dimming doesn’t serve me in paying the bills, LOL! As I wrote in a short poem during my Cali trip, entitled “Adulthood”: “Running from your greatness is childish / Show more ‘grown’ than that.” That’s my truth and I’m owning it, not a knock on anyone else whether they feel a way or not (#period). So this is me “owning it”. I was confused because gigs have been dry lately but really, I stopped putting myself out there like I used to. Coming from a childhood of abuse, placating it away with optimism and empathy (apparently to my detriment), I learned to be great only when asked for. Everything else was silent, only hoping to be seen by people I was “sure” would care, like my caregivers. Otherwise, I was having private “Kanye-moments”, loving up on all my litness fake-hoping for the confidence to share it widely one day, you know, “if anyone ever cared”. I recently learned there’s more than “fight-or-flight” in fear responses. Specifically, I fall under the “fawn” type. I did that my whole life. “Maybe if I’m good, mommy and daddy will stop fighting or being mean to me when they’re mad. Maybe if I dim my light, I won’t make my peers feel bad and we can all see we’re the same, growing into greatness together. Maybe if I tell him, ‘Ok, fine, just one last pump then please get off,’ he’ll get from on top of me. Maybe if I reason, don’t scream or yell, keep saying, “Please, stop,” he’ll hear me. Why isn’t he listening? Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? I hear me, why can’t anyone else? Why?” My Inner Child is crying and Adult Me is honoring her tears with these words. I feel everything is my fault but instead of making that be the problem, maybe I should just let that sit - then stir it into something better, like this free write / essay thing. I am terrified on a near-daily basis that I still won’t be able to save Me…that I…will Plath or Cobain myself one day. Yet, beyond that fear is dying without the world ever seeing my art, the “best of me”, the parts that make me authentically smile and feel meritable - not because I’m being prolific but because this creativity stems from something deep beyond me. That’s why I separate Nykemah and Kemara - they’re both ME but the way it comes out almost needs its own “character” if you will (this is hell for branding but one issue at a time LOL).

Thus, to honor her, Nykemah, I will do it. I vow to share more truth, brag a little more boldly, and say what tf needs to be said, whether it’s under Spirit-given “kgn” or mama-given “nxw” (sidebar: I love my name and that’s another thing, people have a nasty habit of messing it up - “ion like dat”. I prefer saving “Ny/Nykemah” for people I mutually fuck with. Otherwise, “Empress Kemara” is all y’all get and that’s on Mary with her curry lamb chops. Perhaps one day this too will be something altered but for now, again, a battle at a time LOL c: ). Regardless, I had a legend tell me to “do the work” so how can I not oblige? If there’s one thing I know TOO starkly, it is that no day is promised. Before I go, “y’all gonna know”, and that’s on Kemara Gwendolyn Night. A’se & the most thankful of Amens <3

TW: Trauma; Truth.

I may tangent a bit, hope you don't mind; it's simultaneously simple yet complex. Anyway, I've been sexually assaulted before but this last occurrence two years ago (2019) by Raze* really fucked me up. I think because it physically hurt. I had tried various times and ways to forget over the course of 2021 but not many routes came in the form of a pen. I am now generally in a place where I don't want to keep reiterating my trauma but also in a season of willingness to express at will if you will. Like, I could detail how it stung to see the sun rays vying to shine through nearly-shut blinds - but the memory simmers my heart and causes my brain to buzz. I am in such a self-care mode that nothing else matters almost to the point of suicidality - but not quite. No, no, not that, but instead something"solitudinous". Ah, language! I have receipts for days and asses that could be flambéd in the fiery torches of persecution - yet this (for now) feels enough. To intentionally make people squirm, wonder what's up my sleeve, a card of mine, a tell on theirs? *insert evil cackle* I know so much and care with a heart that never brittles - but we do break. It's just, I've been making bloody mosaics most of my life. I like to stare into the reflection and figure out what truth lives there. Life holds enough lies - why should I harbor any? Frankly, I'd be dead were it not for God, and Godless were it not for ghosts, and hell, ghostless if it were not for [inner] sight. But maybe I ramble! Simply, people have missed me but I have too. I lost a lot from that aforementioned incident and as is the "game of life", I gained a lot more sense. Funny how that works. Must it be the burn that teaches child fire? Must learning always necessitate a bruise first? Wisdom says, "That's up to you." Selah. “Accountability” is a pussy-wettening word, there I said it. Owning your stuff is sexy! Like if *blows a whistle* and you get harassed out of a job if your *blows another whistle* but there's digital evidence of what was said or done. When people own their shit, there's no need to drop dirt - because you would've already been bold enough to "8-Mile" your own truth, no matter how shitty/"abusery"/incompetent. Anyway, I find my loss of me...a journey! Yes, it's brought me "here". It helped me flee to Mexico and party with peacocks. It gave me NYC ecstasy then an immediate turkey-revelation after DMX passed. It gave me Georgian sunrises and Bronx lightning-storm photography. I fought self-harm relapse more rounds than I would have granted myself years past. I've thrown out the pot then grew a license to pot, LOL. I hated me, then hated everyone, and now just have God. I cannot simplify that note enough. I learned religion ain't *blows whistle* but much holds merit, even what we don't comprehend. Debate teams should be mandated worldwide. Perhaps just my experience, I found it to be a sturdy way of learning how to "argue" cohesively, building listening skills, empathy, and overall confidence in one's self and stance. It's not enough to believe in You - you have to understand your faults and where your opponent holds validity too, even though you strongly advocate for (or are negating) your side. It's such beautiful art that brought me an ironic level of peace. It taught me how to truly hear people. The issue I encountered was losing my stance to the sympathy of an understood middle-ground. I was soon lost in what someone I recently read coined this confusion as "the empathy spiral". Ah, the power of a label; it summed it in a way I couldn't properly discern before. It describes that moment when I'm stuck in seeing how everyone's right to a degree. How many degrees? How long do I stick to my 1-degree of rightness found within a person when they're displaying 99 boiling degrees of demonism? I used to be praised for conviction but I dead forgot what that is or resembles. I questioned myself to a point of belittling my own self-trust (and respect). Yet wisely I’ve been to myself because I’ve learned well enough to contain my destruction - note: “contain” not “suppress”. It has worked. I’ve hugged myself and said more genuine compliments than every friend who has spoken any only to recant them through vanishing and neglect. I’ve held myself in fits of panic with more consoling than any ER gurney straps could have ever managed. Black, unheard girl with dark thoughts misunderstood as “maturity”. I told my mom the other day (today’s Saturday) that often I fantasize about my own death just to keep from doing it. Truly such a milestone, non-sardonically! That too in itself is also an achievement. Being kind to myself has probably been the greatest victory. Oh, it’s still imperfect as FUCK, BUT I’m doing more gentility than grave-digging. I gotta call, “Progress!” when I see it. :) That said:

I’m still losing my shit!!!

But that’s why I am writing, a coping skill I haven’t done with this much focused and [un]guided attention since...Heaven knows. The situation is I feel on the brink daily but I’m getting creative (arguably desperate LOL) with how I step back inside. When the good coping works, like taking a walk for example, it’s everything right in my world. When it doesn't? I stay wherever I call home, screaming into the shadows alone. The difference between Then and Now is that I’m less caring of whether people hear me. A’se. My Sagi “I don’t give a.f.,” energy has finally emerged. It wasn’t in one fell swoop, however, I see it more palpably unwavering. Thank the Lordt. I’m talking about everything: the abuse, the rapes, the career saboteurs, the escapes; my healing, my relearning, my self-love education, and more - all’it. In different ways, just like I’m used to but the seed had to be replanted. It all blooms from the root of this ink. They tried to shut me up and for a while, they had, but haHA, baby! Paper is a microphone that turns whispers into war cries - and since I’m still here, I choose the winners’ side. The battle is won when one goes back to basics.

*names changed, for now.

*blows whistle* = censored, for now.

2:45AM: Maybe it's "Queen Sugar" or maybe it's an old [female] friend hitting me at this hour, or maybe it's me telling a man I'm worth it (instead of just saying it myself) but an "awful" wave swept over me just now. Usually on "Q.S." I feel like Nova. Hell, take away the "grown issues" and siblings and I AM quite Nova. Yet, right now I feel like Darla. I resonated with the last episode (S4E09), how she clutched the bottle like a lifeline, like a scale or decision: "to relapse or not to relapse". Saying, "Relapse is on the road to recovery," like I used to say felt right when I was still self-harming. Though the weight of it is still bulky in truth, and the meaning even then was meant to be motivation to get up after a fall, currently it feels like a crutch...an excuse. I've held my "bottle" aka the blade so often, like Darla, bent over broken and sobbing, as if my tears could baptize the moment and wash the evil right out my hands. I've asked for my own tears to tsunami away my pain. Maybe this episode triggered me. Maybe I'm in my bag because I'm thinking about life and it's 2:50. Maybe I'm mad because I have no apologies to beg for, unlike Nova. No, I have no apologies to make because no bold moves have been made (lately...). I could relapse right now. I probably won't. About 85%, no 90% solid chance I will not. Then again, the idea of marking this day, or tomorrow rather, seems nice. I couldn't celebrate a year of sobriety - unpunctured flesh - because I didn't believe in myself enough to ever mark that down. Again, back then the agenda was different: "don't mark dates because it will make you anxious in wanting to 'stay the course'". I'd seen it a million times, me talking teens off the ledge who were filled with the guilt of "ruining" their 4-day, 3-week, 7-month etc. streaks. They held the guilt and remorse of a man on death row. That's how I came up with the phrase anyway: "Relapse is on the road to recovery." Generic but genuine. The time doesn't matter, just that you DID it and CAN Continue to. Yet, as this odd wave rushes over me...I feel as if I let myself down. The wisdom I harbored then hasn't seemed to stick and I...I wonder if like a child cancer patient, if I was so "great" because I had nothing else to "give" or show at that point! "Stakes". I don't gamble (frequently, lol) but I'm always betting something...pitting something, specifically myself-against-myself. The war never ceases, does it? I have frail optimism (what's new?). I am 23 and surprised. Downright scared deep down. "Confused" MOST honestly. My recovery has/is bringing me better places...people...yet I fear ruining it. I am so afraid. It shows. The energy seeps through everything I do and though THAT is not new, I can't help but to recall when I was a teenager, I actually did something WORTHY with that pain! I was an award-winning poet for fuck's sake! I was on TV, I was traveling as an artist FOR my artistry. I was living dreams I couldn't enjoy because I was too entrenched in pain and self-loathing; now I feel like I give even a slight damn about myself and I can't hold a pen...I don't care to. I hold mics and feel like I'm not worthy - and let that stunt me vs drive me. God!, I used to be so good at having inadequacy be my "driver". It's force almost became a gimmick I think. An authentic gimmick, but a crutch all the same. Processing shit the hEaLtHy wAy hasn't lent me much "art" lately, which brings me to the other phase I invented in my early teens: "Am I mad because I'm an artist or an artist because I'm mad?" I hate the answer I'm receiving. I am an artist! I am an artist! I am an artist with little inspiration, lacking motivation, and...I'm fucking exhausted. Maybe I will "Nova Bordelon". Maybe I'll air all the laundry that is or is not mine to say...maybe I make a problem to pray over, write over. Maybe I be the problem I cannot ever fix. It is 3:05 now and I think on all that is gone, all that is "supposed" to come. I think of the nuances and complexities of Corona. I think of conspiracies and my part and death and my death...what that looks like. What that "will" look like now that I've "resolved" not to make it be by my own hands. I think of and look at my hands, feeble yet strong. Strong yet feeble? I think...I know I think too much. Say too much. I think I'll post this. I do these free writes all the time. They're for me, almost like a diary, but I think about putting them in my 3rd book. Lol, the book I can't guarantee anyone will look at. There's no guarantees with art though, huh? I think - no, I know my first two books were fire. "Are" fire. I DON'T know if I'll pass this semester (despite a nearly heroic-level passing of the last). I know whatever life force and vitality I had is being sapped under the weight of my own.."ownness". I reiterate I did not expect to be alive and I thought I had tackled the weight of that already, but there's still a boulder on my back that refuses to roll away. Regardless of the forgiveness I've administered (energetically since I've been unfairly shut-out, lol) or the welts I've maintained as sacrifice for whatever "wrongness" lives within me, I feel the heaviness. The heaviness always got me to write, which is why I'm here now. God, I just want to know an art not created from my pain. It has never felt releasing. It has always felt just as if I'm writing to myself as another person so maybe SOMEONE on this Goddamn PLANET could make me FEEL Understood. The older I get...I don't think I still know that talent. Trust Me, it's a talent to understand me. I thought I had it down-pact (despite how saddening or even frustrating that comprehension would often be). I knew I had it down but I feel..as if I'm removed from Me. That's because I KNEW Me, but I have no fucking idea on WHO I AM Becoming. Fuck. 3:15AM and I decide to have an existential crisis instead of...I don’t fucking know. Maybe I'll share this in case anyone feels the same or maybe I'll share this because I refuse to cut myself so "reflection-porn" seems "safer". My skin tells on me already, doesn't it? What's one sad little piece of prose? "iF iT cOuLd hElP. iF iT cAn hEaL." Healing and helping everyone else but Myself. That's a "Me" I recall. Smh, thought I was passed that shit.... Vulnerability is a heavy bitch. Maybe laying your cards on a table means I don't mind losing this hand, just known I'll be coming right back around to whoop that ass next round. Nobody sees this shit, I mean THIS shit and I was saving it for the book I can't seem to focus enough to write nor compile (I write often so most "books" I will make are really just compilations from the "collection of spirit"). I think I want to share, but I'm scared. The one thing I "knew" about Me, "teen Me" is that I still operated out of fear, for the sakes of art and collective growth/conversation. I'm much less of a martyr now. Is that the issue? That's rhetorical (or is it??). It is now 3:21AM and I am proud of two things: the futon chair I purchased on credit and the closeness I feel to God again. I don't want to sacrifice that with blades or a bad decision. What I still lament is the lack of closeness to myself, my Beautiful Ass Self. I'm worse than the niggas (trying to unlearn that word) that played me (or rather: that I ALLOWED to play [Me]). I am RAD. AS. Fuck., yet I don't do what I should [for Me]. That's a tangent that I don't feel like going down, which I think says all it needs to in that breath, but I digress. It is now 3:24AM and I am grateful for artistic pieces that make me digest what I yearn to regurgitate - digest what I know to be necessary...I feel something in my stomach like "chance". "Take a chance" specifically. It makes no sense. It never does I guess. But, I will swallow. Relapse is on the road to recovery. Relapse doesn't have to look or be as bad as it used to be. New slogan. New system? Same Me, or maybe not. Maybe. Happy Earth Day; I don't know what goes, but I'm still working my way around. God, watch over me. Amen / Áse. Thank You. 3:28AM.

Your misfortune is my uprise

Let the universe chastise

I do not know what you do

But I surmise

I'm prized

For not doing whatever

You had.

~kgn

You say you down but believe me, I'm lookin

Checked around and you weren't really movin'

With me to the top

When I elevated you dropped

Me like dead weight

Said you care but you fake

Don't plug me? That's a mistake.

Call me "friend"

But set other dates

Next standing O

I'll leave you at the gate,

It's fate

That I loved you but you like games

Baby girl that's not an issue,

With or without you I'll slay

Cause believe me

I too can play.

You were what I needed

But Mother Dearest

Took you away, saying

I held you in excess, said She 

Would be all I need

To trust in her

Besides grieve

Over what I could no longer carry

I made a hoard of you

A stash just for me

But she took it back saying

I needed to trust the lonely

When you feel you take up too much space

When your partner doesn't want to kiss you

When you make an idiot of yourself in front of an intellectual

When you are just never enough for the person that it counts for

When you're not good enough to be anyone's hero, even your own:

Smoke,

Smoke,

Smoke.

What happened there

I made sure to bring back.

I know I didn't follow the rules,

But I just couldn't help it.

A city built on temptation -

How could I not indulge

In the tempting?

For every fuck you allowed me to coax

Into lovemaking

For every kiss you said was genuine

You are the worst type of liar

For making me believe

That in love with me you'd be

Instead of letting me know the truth

That's abuse

Of the worst sort

A heart that never knows honesty

Due to a PERCEIVED fear of fragility

My pain is magnified by the cowardice of such thinking

To think I could not take it

To believe I couldn't be okay

With what you'd say

Do not you know how deep this love runs?

Like subterranean

Ocean floors couldn't catch my depth

I love you beyond Earth's core

Didn't you see how I wept?

When all I asked is for a maintenance of being upfront

The stunt of not keeping it a buck is what made me really hurt

But that's okay, you have your secrets

And I have my sorrows

Thanks for being a friend

If only the friend part followed.