Tag Archives: Poetry

Meditations for Loneliness & Other Ills That Can’t Be Cured with Simplicity

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?

 

Love Always,

Damali Speaks Xx

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In Them I Found (Poetry by Damali Rose Xion)

I found my life partner

In between being

abused and being worshipped I found that I want or need neither.

I was searching for her all along, and him, and them

It all fit.

I put it together early on that I was queer

In the midst of friendships there was something

That fit so right here

I just loved

being close

holding

kissing

My friends were more in every sense of the word

and I discovered a deep well of love and what didn’t belong

and I don’t have to explain that to

you

-Damali Rose Xion

 

Te Amo Mas Que – Poetry by Damali Rose Xion

Te Amo Mas Que

said Shange

I loved you more than I knew how

You had to teach me

But I was a fast learner

I used to watch you sleep and when you wrapped your arms around me

I wanted it to be forever

I knew when I boarded that plane that you would never join me here

Our listening ears were never meant to work

together

Joy and Splendor

met with betrayal on a sunny day and planned their escape

Nothing personal.

Healing work for you eclipsed any of what we could have been and denial of

Queerness left me feeling alone

He mistreated you and I witnessed what you couldn’t let me give

For real.

Truth.

“I know you”

that’s what I said when I first met you

I knew that we had met before and that we were game changers

Rule breakers

Heart makers

of a different kind

When I fell in love with you

I don’t think ill of the day you left

You gave me so much but really all I wanted was for you to

Come

Back

To

Me

Be whole with me

No Room for Error (Revolutionary Love) – Poetry by Damali Rose Zion

I demand

Everything

In a world of differing values and ethics

To remain in my space is to thrive

To exist in the radiance that is my

Love

Is to acknowledge that

YES

We are different

and yet we coexist.

Too many of the world’s children embrace mediocrity.

Love

Friendship

should not exist within those boundaries

Love is revolutionary.

My love has embraced imperfection and shattered your previous notions

I possess the capacity for

life changing love

But only for those willing to let vulnerability rain in waves of

sharing

hunting

exposing

the innermost being.

Those brave enough to dive deep.

Can you swim?

Bee You (Sweet One) – Poetry by Damali Rose Zion

When was the last time you let yourself

Love

You?

When did you laugh for you?

When did you masturbate for you?

Touch yourself.

Hold you in your palm

Your heart

Your ethers

Nah

You’re much too vast to be held by so small

So do it

Hold yourself

How it scares you

Do what you’ve never done

Be who you’ve yet to have been

You

Hermit Thoughts – Poetry by Damali Rose Zion

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?

You Don’t Look Black (What People Say to Separate)

I had a person say to me this week,

“You don’t look black”.

It was in the heat of bed and I should have known some stupid

shit like that was bound to come out in the midst of hide and seek but I thought

“Nah”.

But yea, it was said and in my head I was ready to shoot out what the old me would have

said.

The fuck you mean?

I don’t look like straight out of Africa? Well then you tell me, what does straight out of Africa look like?

Black Lives Matter

When on a Saturday night it all catches up with you.

You cry for the black people dead today.

You cry for the black people dead this week.

You cry for the black people dead this month.

You cry for the black people dead this year.

You cry so much that you fear you won’t stop.

Until you do.

You are not numb.

Continue on.

You don’t have a choice.