Hey Speakers! Some healing for the day Xx
I don’t like sleeping with (fucking) straight men.
I have never liked sleeping with (fucking) straight men.
But I pretended to, because that’s what was “right”.
I’m attracted to them in so far as they intrigue me, much like a flower grown out of concrete.
I like to watch them when they don’t know I’m looking.
I see the planes and plateau’s of their voices.
I see the way they hold patriarchy and misogyny as loaded guns to be fired.
I see how they smile with pearls of white and eyes of black and how it can make my knees weak.
I see how they grow and change with muscle and dream.
I see the stunted way that emotions are squashed further and further down to Alice’s rabbit hole.
I cannot see a future with them, being who I am right now.
Who am I?
I am sexually female.
I have a vagina and a working uterus, breasts and hips, a round ass and I secrete estrogen and testosterone at certain parts of the month, sometimes year.
I enjoy wearing tight dresses and loose jeans stolen from my brothers’ closets.
I’m attracted to people alongside and without the binary.
I love differently.
But…I don’t feel like a “woman” because gender seems rigid even though I know that it’s wide and open, still something I could never quite starve myself into. Womxn…all inclusive.
Let me make this clear. I am not transgender.
I am balanced and I still need to explore what that means for myself.
Being called “Queen” used to make me feel good and now I hear it and want to vomit. I am not royalty. I am spirit.
It feels like a cage I don’t want to be stuck in. I want fluidity.
I hunger for satiating sex. It’s been so long, too long, forever. Bare in mind that I said satiating, not just sex. That, I had…last month. I wonder when, why and how but honestly, right now I just want to let go. With kisses deep and limbs entangled touching every part of me. I hunger for depth and someone that I won’t later regret. I guess that’s love. Is it? Maybe it’s just sex. I’m horny as fuck, pardon the pun and I do love sex. So good. Like real and deep and no matter how cool I am, a moment doesn’t lie and heat is telling. Good sex helps me focus like masturbation but lasts longer before I need another hit. I’m twitching.
I love touch. It’s essential and overrated at the same damn time. Where did I get those expectations? Explanations? I explained them like I expected them to be who they were not. Still, I tried didn’t I? Do I get points for that? Oh, this isn’t weight watchers. Yet, here I sit on this late night train with tired thoughts and mourning brain wondering when my body will be good enough. Strong enough. Thin enough. Thick enough. Held enough.
I guess the perfect feminine forgot about me, or maybe I refused to tag along. I got bored of always being too much of “something” and not enough “no-thing”. Now I’m rambling. I suppose that black, womxn and feminine couldn’t co-exist outside a lovely box so I made something up. Made believed it fit. The truth is that what you find sexy about me is the exploitative. Or the balance. You like my truth. But my masculine sneaks through when you least expect it and unleashes countless amounts of venom. This small book can’t possibly contain all my truths. I’d need more ink. But since this train is still going, I might as well too.
I’m having an existential crisis at 25. My soul feels more like 2500. Years. Old. What am I doing here? I was told once that I have books in my eyes. That someone could fall deep into them and never want to come out. I laughed at the reality with diamonds in my throat. My soul is too old to comprehend Cubic Zirconia. Some times, all the time, fake isn’t better. Last night, I spent hours on the beach engaged in my books, my oldness, my youth, my wombanness in that my sex is female and I can create life from a womb and I stood with water tasting my toes on a warm and well lit night. I thought “Wow, this shit is wild and so am I. Who the fuck will get me? Does it matter? Am I one that gets got?”.
I continued to miss intimacy, not sex because I figured out that post my achieved orgasm, I want to try to be held. Something different than my usual vanish and disconnect. That gone girl happens when I sleep with (fuck) straight men and don’t come for various rules of patriarchy require my orgasm be to his own liking. With anyone else, it’s different. Without “straight” as an elephant in the room, I want close, I want to try. Maybe that’s maturity, growth or just loneliness. Maybe it’s some or all. I’ve been interested in the pattern of breath lately. The rise and fall.
How alive am I?
Damali Speaks Xx
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Damali Speaks Xx
No one will ever really get you dear one.You live up to your word
You switch and change with
And yet it is still your truth
Impossible to get all of
Except with your own
Stop seeking to be accepted
Love that you are this mystery ocean bottom
Open more to your
-Damali Rose Xion
Speak from your heart always
May it scare
May it breathe
May it break
May it squander
the dark until it runs from the comfortable hiding place.
Whole with Reckless Abandon for
- Damali Rose Zion Xx
When was the last time you let yourself
When did you laugh for you?
When did you masturbate for you?
Hold you in your palm
You’re much too vast to be held by so small
So do it
How it scares you
Do what you’ve never done
Be who you’ve yet to have been
To put it mildly, I’ve become THAT person.
The one who ignores texts and doesn’t answer when you call.
The one who doesn’t leave the house for anyone
The one who doesn’t engage unless it holds benefit
The one who cries at how far humanity has to elevate
The one who works hard for self and not for capitalist ventures
The one who masturbates because reclaim is better than transfer
The one who.
The one who.
The one who.
I am finally that person.
Shall we embrace?
That foreign place that I loathe to return to.
What is me?
Where is home?
What do we return to when we step foot on stolen land?
wading into the water
hair heavy on my
salt and sand
that didn’t belong
known only to those who are
oldest and deepest
can drown you.