As I stand and breathe in the musk of the Georgia-Petworth Station, I cannot help but wish there was a cosmic towel that could wipe away the familiar, unfamiliarity of my predicament. I’ve been here before but the strange scent of raw rejection cooked by the sun of uncertainty reigns supreme. It stinks much more when cooked in the kitchen of knowing. Since 2013, it’s been as if I’ve been stewing in a potlicker of Mary J. Blige hits.
The time frame is similar, when we met, though I wouldn’t call him my DJ, despite his uncanny ability to guide my hips, lips and intellectual slips with the force of his personality, via the whims of his pleasure. Sunrise awakenings don’t transform the horizons of the earth, they just make them pretty. I was his to hold, always have been, but the promise of his touch was no more valuable than fools gold in the portfolio of the Lehman Brothers, but he is no Bernie Madoff. There are no victims here. I knew the risks. I played the game. I lost again. Hopefully this time I gained some sense.
Shit, this piece is getting personal–on some “all my life I had to fight” high drama. There comes a point when we must publicly confront and caress the truth about ourselves, where we must contend with the ugly, beauty within us. I am here now, head held high, endeavoring to love me, audaciously.
I wasn’t searching for love, at any point. I was noting its potential and choosing to engage with the Cosmos and Mother/Padre/Agender Nature by partaking in this game of love and war, and truth and pain, and healing and violence, and violence isn’t always bad–especially when love is something you’ve sometimes had, and grow familiar with.
I loved him on purpose, with a purpose and as he breathes wet kisses on my I rethink my purpose and the soul work of networth as a living, loving couple..here, there, then and now..and never…if ever. I loved him on purpose.