On Black, Fat, Femme Positivity: Why I'm at My Heaviest, My Most Confident, and Don't Need Your Approval to Exist
"If I breathe in public for five seconds, it’s also common that someone will feel the need to tell me, “YASSSSS!” in an attempt to ch...
Monday, October 5, 2015
And I recall the Christ and how He loved us first; so, we love Him in return
It is the least we could do...the very least
For whatever reason, you loved me first
You allowed your heart to be wild and abandon security for risk of loving me
For you to love me, though I don't understand it
Though I don't always fully believe it
Makes me want to love you in return
It is the least I could do...the very least
Some would maintain that you can't miss what never was
They would be wrong
For they know not of the many times you've kissed my lips with your words
They haven't felt the jumble of butterflies I get when your grasp steadies my hips with mere thought
Or the comfort I've gotten in the way you held the small of my back with your care
And some days, it feels unfair
That you can't wrap me in your physical embrace
But until then, I'll let your words kiss my lips
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
You are my insomnia.
It's unfair that you've taken over my mind.
Sweet goodnights end with me staying awake daydreaming of sweet, good nights next to you.
How you've hitched yourself up to me without warning.
I don't wanna call it love. But...I can't sleep.
There exists an insurmountable number of words sufficient to express my sentiments for you.
However, my lips and heart default to one.
And who's to say how foolish I've become
In light of a whirlwind romance?
Swept in your arms, enjoying this dance.
While I'm afraid, these butterflies excite me.
While I'm timid, your passion ignites me.
I await the day we'll finally come face to face.
Until then, my heart remains foolishly true.
While my head and mind tell me like,
My heart and lips tell me I love you.
I'm not sure I can trust you with my love.
Forgive me my love.
The truth is, I'm jaded; I'd hoped that I hadn't been fazed by the ways others have hurt me
I find it hard to trust that you won't hurt me or desert me
I'm not sure I can't rust you with my 'I love yous.'
Forgive me, my love.
The truth is, I wonder if they will be abused; misused, appropriated for selfish tools to hack away at my being
Depleting their meaning
Taken and emptied
I'm not sure that this is even love.
Forgive me, my heart.
The truth is, I fear that this is the part where I've fallen; where I thought I'd heard love calling only to answer to strange heavy breathing
Heart rate steadily increasing
I think this is love, but I'm having trouble believing
Forgive me, my love.
I'm not sure that I cannot trust you
Give me a reason to not trust you.
I'd be remiss to not admit that I replayed the kiss I longed for your to plant on my lips.
Passionate. Soft. Warm. Heavy.
Only looking to gaze into my eyes to hold my soul steady.
I wanted to give more of myself to you.
But to my great dismay, you couldn't let me.
I want to be your escape.
Your break away from the world
Your window seat.
The waves along the shore crashing against your feet.
Let me be your sunrise, your brighter day.
Eyes you can look into and lose your troubles...
Even if for only a moment.
Let me be your moment
Away from it all.
Your lifeline call when you feel yourself slipping.
Let me be your gripping.
Get your bearings with me.
Just hold on and enjoy if only for this moment.
Let me be your escape.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Like bitten nails on nubby finger pads
Uncomfortable, yet comforting
Or his contentment with lending hurt
He passed out jabs like Rocky and beef slabs
Leaving her rare, black and blue
And this not only affects her, it's killing her kids, two
Never tell him it's okay to cry while facing his fears
So she let the infection steep and tried to conceal
And those she knew would say, 'but he showed such great remorse!'
'She must've done something she'd soon find to regret'
There ain't no rest for the wicked
Her offender walks free
As she lay gone forever
It was her fault; it must be
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Auntie Nina sang to me tales of Billie clubs beating Black bodies
And Hollidays past
The bitter taste of festive cakes and pies made of Strange Fruit
They made jest and just expect us to ingest hateful truths
We hang while our forefathers laugh
Everybody knows about Mississippi, God.
Everybody knows about Alabama, God.
Everybody knows about South Africa, God.
Everybody knows about LA, God.
Everybody knows about Texas, God.
Everybody knows about Florida, God.
Everybody knows about Nigeria, God.
Everybody knows about New York, God.
Everybody knows about Ferguson, God.
Everybody knows about Kenya, God.
Everybody knows about Baltimore, God.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
I wanted a change. So I...locked my hair, pierced my nose and wore red lipstick. Sticks. Sticks and stones may break my bones. Bones. Breaking bones. Broken. Searching for myself in a world to which I am foreign, unchosen. For acceptance in a space that was too small for me. I am much greater. He who dwells in me is much greater.
Mirakol Smith, originally written on January 22, 2015
On the outside
I'm all smiles and giggles.
Hugs and kind words.
Inwardly, I'm silently screaming.
My hurt is unearthed
At the sound of triggers.
Pulling me forward and backwards again.
Lies inside telling me I can't win.
And they seem to never lose.
I find myself favoring snooze because I just don't want to leave my bed.
Recalling all the things the darkness in me said.
Maintaining them as truth.
Mirakol Smith, April 26, 2015
Ode to Black Men
Forgive me if I
Drool a little bit
Twirl my hair
Catch a whiff of your smell
Graze your arm or chest
Excuse me while I
Catch my breath
Less than I can say
I'll watch your step
As you walk my way
I speak of the depth
Of your brown, brown eyes
Your tall, wide gait
You're no more wise
That I've taken the bait
Of the love that danced on your lips as you spoke
Or your sun-kissed skin
Cacao is akin to your melanin
Don't flash that winning grin
I almost choke
On my words to describe you
Many come close, but none contend...
There is just something about Black men.
Mirakol Smith, April 25, 2015
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Friday, April 24, 2015
or find satisfaction
in the fact that
there is someone worse off than me
I grumble and complain
Sometimes shake my fist at God
I hate catching the bus in the rain
Or realizing my friends have in the last year caught 4, 5, 6 flights
Done got wifed
And I wait in what seems a sea of mediocrity
Finding it hard to not wonder: what's wrong with me?
I want to fall madly in love
I want my dreams realized
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Just as you revel with great mirth,
You are melancholic.
Monday, April 20, 2015
I'm a bit behind with my writing. So this is my time to play catchup. I'll try to roll them out. These pieces will be old pieces I've gathered, pieces lingering in my queue, on my phone, etc. Short poems, haikus. Things of the like.
Glass Houses and a Sledgehammer
It is at times fleeting, and then I'm okay. Other times, it bores through me like a piercing gaze…not akin to that of a lover.
I feel I'm sitting in an empty glass house with no stones and a sledgehammer too heavy for me to swing and set myself free.
I'm left with my thoughts. I'm left with my own words, weaponized to be unkind to myself. And this heavy, heavy hammer.
It is far more than I can stand to lift. It is old. It is rugged. It is splintery and rusted. And while quite difficult and painful to manage, it is the only thing that will get me out of this place.
I try, many a time, to no avail to lift this aid of liberation. I grow weary. I cry. I fail. So I sit, with this hammer lightly grasped wondering how I will ever manage to get out of here. For I am too weak. I am not strong enough to do this in my own might…
If I were to escape, what about the shards of glass? What about the pain of actually climbing out? What about what lies on the other side of these walls? Can I handle it?
I am left with them and this heavy, heavy hammer--the only thing that can set me free.
Where do I find strength to use the only tool given me?
I strengthen myself by carrying this tool. I bear its heaviness. I endure the splinters. I embrace the callouses. And with this comes renewal of the mind…a mental and spiritual Bearing, Endurance and Embrace like no other. I build the valor necessary to heave this tool as I will.
And break free…
Glass at my feet, limbs a bit scarred, hammer in hand, walking to the next glass house.
And let us rejoice and exult in our hope of experiencing and enjoying the glory of God.Moreover [let us also be full of joy now!] let us exult and triumph in our troubles and rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that pressure and affliction and hardship produce patient and unswerving endurance.
And endurance (fortitude) develops maturity of character (approved faith and tried integrity). And character [of this sort] produces [the habit of] joyful and confident hope of eternal salvation.Such hope never disappoints or deludes or shames us, for God’s love has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit Who has been given to us.
Friday, April 17, 2015
I am not here to appease the masses
of people who cry buckets of privileged tears
Neither am I here to trapeze to and fro to coddle stubborn asses
who are so [willingly] oblivious in their privilege that they won't admit their fears
That maybe, perhaps they have been wrong this whole time
That quite possibly, most definitely not all these unarmed Indigenous peoples committed crimes
That Tanisha Brown's death was justly ruled a homicide
and her killer is walking free; they just let dude slide
That an unsuspecting Rekia Boyd was killed by an off-duty officer
with no justification but 'suspicion' when he hauled off and shot her
That Trayvon Martin really was just buying Skittles and Arizona iced tea
and met his untimely demise at the hands of a vigilante creep
That an officer--erm--plainclothesman brought Eric Garner [with an illegal chokehold] to his death
as the man cried out: I. Can't. Breathe. He took his final breath
That an unarmed Michael Brown's misdemeanors should never have warranted a death sentence,
but this officer who killed him execution style, shot him--and meant it
That Tamir Rice and his toy gun were simply having (perhaps foolish) but boyish fun
yet, 15 seconds on the scene, cop discharged murderous bullets from his gun
How do you explain 'he looked about 20' to a 12-year-old boy's Mum
Just in case you were wondering where this is coming from
I would explain
But at this point, I'm tired
Tired of saying the same damn thang
If you can't find wrong in a justice system that vindicates the killing of unarmed human beings...
Wake. The eff. Up.
I am not here to protect your vain feelings
I wonder if the life I know was predestined will spring up from me.
Am I beyond reparation?
This soil of mine…cracked, thirsting for more…
Will it ever reveal new life?
It becomes a bit cumbersome for a bud with little hope
To wonder if it'll ever come into full bloom.
Seeds have been sown.
Weeds are being pulled.
Thorns are gradually being snipped away.
Intermittent sunshine and rain.
Just when there seemed to be no hope in this arid land
God breaks open the heavens, and pours out His blessings.
He is not withholding his greatness from His people.
And I am reminded of a word whispered to me before one Sunday service…
"You are good ground."
While damp, muddy, and a bit messy…good ground, indeed.
If My people, who are called by My name, shall humble themselves, pray, seek, crave,and require of necessity My face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, forgive their sin, and heal their land. Now My eyes will be open and My ears attentive to prayer offered in this place. For I have chosen and sanctified (set apart for holy use) this house, that My Name may be here forever, and My eyes and My heart will be here perpetually.
2 Chronicles 7:14-16 (AMP)
But He said to me, My grace (My favor and loving-kindness and mercy) is enough for you [sufficient against any danger and enables you to bear the trouble manfully]; for Mystrength and power are made perfect (fulfilled and completed) and show themselves most effective in [your] weakness. Therefore, I will all the more gladly glory in my weaknesses and infirmities, that the strength and power of Christ (the Messiah) may rest (yes, may pitch a tent over and dwell) upon me!
2 Corinthians 12:9
Thursday, April 16, 2015
It takes a special kind of fighter, a warrior--to see the depths, lined with shards and fire.
Encamped in murky waters.
Draped in melancholy and wrapped in despair--
to dive in armed with simply a heart to see you healed and free.
This is for you.
Those who've had the seeming displeasure of swimming in my deep. My hurt. My longing.
Those who, with the Father's heart, said they were not afraid, that I don't have to apologize for my brokenness.
Those who look on my face with delight at the little girl I was, the woman I am, and my becoming.
For my family, both blood and blood bought. For my friends. For my teachers and leaders. For the strangers who listened when God told them to speak, to see her.
For the mothers who don't have their own, yet saw a daughter to nurture and did so without pause.
For the fathers with a God-sized desire to see sons and daughters experience real fathers.
This is for you.
And I hope you can accept my thank you, though my words will never be enough to show my gratitude.
Because there will never be an elocutionary means to adequately express the deepest appreciation of those who fight for the ones who could never repay them.
This...this is for you.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
I have believed what they've told me about myself.
Their truths about me.
'You're so extroverted and outgoing!'
'You're such a people person!'
'You're friends with everyone!'
But, you see...they don't know me.
I love people, but they annoy me.
I like my space but am also outgoing.
I have few close friends and many acquaintances.
And yielding my energy often relinquishes me of my maintenances.
See...I am what some call an ambivert; an outgoing introvert.
I think and feel deeply. And when you hurt, I hurt.
I am compassionate and intense. I am pensive and subtle-minded.
And my brightness, in part, dims my spirit--broken, troubled, and disquieted.
I began to only see it, when I was alone and left in my head.
Facing my personal darknesses and inmost thoughts had become something I'd dread.
So I'd throw myself into others, in hopes to escape what I feared deeply...
To be by myself and be forced to re-meet me.
Hello 'strange' 15 year old, with the jet black hair, necktie and stripy socks.
I see you with your questions, listening to your 'strange' music, donning a sleeve that showcases your heart.
Never simply accept someone else's truth about you.
You are okay. Being who you are is okay.
You're different, and you'll soon find that you like it that way.
No Strings Attached - by Mirakol Smith, circa August 2009, edited April 2015
call me Gepetta...for I am the she playing on your heart strings like a puppeteer.
a callused-fingered violinist
can you feel me, you feel me.
let me know you feel where I'm coming from.
fingers going numb. sweat trembles from the balcony above you.
I pull, you dance...on cue. you're my Pinocchio
with an ever-growing nose. the absence of truth...I can't think
as I blink back tears whilst the stage play continues
wanting to be yours, because I could use...somebody.
someone like you.
I'll cut your strings...
Untitled - Mirakol Smith, circa March 2009, edited April 2015
I gasped for my last breath as I died in your eyes...do you love me?
If you don't, then you've lied with your eyes.
And I've tried to grasp concept of this clairvoyance. That gut feeling--tummy twisting.
Do you hold that same sagacity? Can you feel me? Can you read me? Do you love me?
If you don't, my intuition has failed me. Thus, I have failed epically. I fell epically into a love that...
In essence, finds it hard to love me. Finding himself loving me, but not wanting to love me because he's finding himself. Find self...fine, self!
So, I told myself I'd be fine by myself. If I just mind myself. And focus on me.
But the love in his eyes make it hard for me.
Playing those two damn songs. On repeat. Constantly. As I let tears fall.
In hopes of one day receiving that knock on the door, that "oh my gosh it's him" call...for him to tell me...
He loves me. Do you love me? Please say it's so...Do you love me? My heart pauses for the know...Do you love me...or is that gut feeling, your sagacity, my intuition, the love in your eyes deceiving me?
See you tomorrow! :)