In The Dark

I’m comfortable

In the dark

But I would much rather feel

Something other than the stark

Chill of my own heart and soul


Do you even?

When you look at me

Do you have any sympathy

For what you did to me

From what you stole from me?
Do you have any idea

how empty I felt

While looking for someone else?
But they only

Who thought of me

as an empty shell

A silhouette

That place


my legs

Like you
Do you have any idea how numb I felt

While you were touching me?

Or did you think I was enjoying it that much…
Do you have any idea the company

I craved to be

With expecting them to be 

Less like we

All I remember is lying there 

With a cold dark cloud

That would become 

My best friend for life
All I remember is my innocence

Being stolen from me

And I didn’t know what to do
All I remember is being confused


I thought I was supposed to like this


I just felt numb
All I remember is

My own mother refusing

To hear my side

Choosing you over me
All I remember is the cold dark cloud comforting me better 

Than anyone else did


Sometimes I

Can not find the words I 

Desperately want to say to you when

I feel the electrified fog coming in

Have this knot


Right in my throat that

Holds the words hostage and

Refuses to set them free

And in my mind the flash backs of my innocence being stolen from me without my consent leaves me paralyzed just as I weep 

Inside I try to stay strong outside because I do not want to unleash the lightning onto you

This frightens me

Stolen Innocence

*Trigger Warning: Rape*​ 

It’s been in the back of my mind for the past few days. I’ve stumbled upon some poetry about rape and molestation. It got me thinking about mine. I was trying to push it down but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and I desperately wanted to talk about it. So here I go.

As a child I was raped and molested by one of my male cousins. Multiple times for a number of years. I thought that since I never tried to stop him I must be enjoying it so I shouldn’t try to stop him. But I didn’t know if I really was enjoying it because while it was happening I felt numb to everything. I didn’t even smile. He turned on the TV and I just focused really hard on that instead of what he was doing.

But when I watched porn and sex on TV and saw that they looked like they were enjoying it more than I seemed to. I thought there was something wrong with me. Like I was broken. Was I broken? I probably was. 

So I would get these mixed feelings. I wanted him to continue because I thought I was supposed to enjoy it and I thought that I should want sex. I became obsessed with him because of the attention he was giving me. I was an only child and my parents were working really hard to make sure I had food and a bed to sleep on under a roof. So I spent a lot of time by myself or with other family members who were too preoccupied with their own responsibilities.

I also made up a lot of stories to try to get myself out of trouble. But when I tried to tell my mom that he was raping me she didn’t believe me and thought that I initiated the act. So I learned to keep my mouth shut. 

Never tell anyone what’s wrong because they’ll think you’re lying.

I often thought I was adopted because I wasn’t like my family. I didn’t even like them. I often wished I was adopted because I wanted a better family. One who cared enough to listen to my crazy stories. One who will listen to me when I tell them someone is doing something I don’t like. One who would do more to protect me from people who want to use me like a sex doll.

So there it goes. I let my boyfriend read this and we talked about it. It feels a lot lighter on my shoulders now. But this is only the beginning of my healing. I’m going to my first therapy session in like a couple years. Then I’ll work up the courage to tell my parents and we can finally put this behind us.

Just some thoughts

I woke up at noon again. But this time I was home alone. Comfortable and satisfied. Sleep feels absolutely amazing when no one is there to wake you up. I don’t have the most comfortable sleeping area but at least I have something to sleep on. As well as a roof to sleep under. I am grateful for my parents putting up with me for so long. 21 years. And I’ll be 22 this year. Wow.

Hopefully early next year I will have my own place to sleep in. But the DMV isn’t​ the cheapest place to live and the job market is super competitive. I’m not sure if I’ll survive here unless I publish a few books. Which I am working on. 

I will definitely publish my poetry first. It’s quicker and I’m getting more inspiration to write poetry than I am my other projects. I have three novel ideas. I try my best to work on them but bits and pieces come to me randomly. Good thing I always have my phone handy so I can catch them all. 

I have to try making goals again. I’m terrible at making and sticking with goals. I always say I want to set goals and I do. But I only reach one small goal and get “lazy.” I lose motivation real quick and I’m not sure why or what I can do to keep it. That’s another thing I have to talk about in therapy tomorrow.

I think that’s enough rambling for tonight. Good Night WordPress.

Even on my dark days, I still feel beautiful

Is it weird for me to still love how I look even when I’m depressed? I steal a glance or two of myself in the mirror and think “well at least I’m still beautiful.” That’s the power of self-love. Also the power of my boyfriend’s love. I can’t give myself all the credit, he has a part to play in my self-acceptance. We’ve been together since 2014 and he managed to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. He tells me almost everyday that I am beautiful and he loves me. But with depression, you would think that I would hate my looks while I’m depressed.

I didn’t always love the way I looked of course. Like every human being. I hated my dark skin and “nappy” hair. I hated how big my nose looked on my small face. I hated that my eyes were dark brown. I wanted them to be hazel or green. I hated (still kind of don’t like) how thin (underweight) I am. I’ve always enjoyed being short though. I hate cooking while being short. It turns into a workout. I wasn’t like most girls growing up. I wasn’t obsessed with using makeup to “enhance” my beauty. I did cover up my “nappy” hair using weaves and chemicals. But that was the only thing I did to change my appearance so I can at least like something about myself.

I hated that I didn’t look like a “normal black girl.” I had (still have) no curves, small breasts, and a small butt. I was obsessed over this and often googled “how to grow boobs” or “how to make my butt bigger.” I was always comparing my growth to the woman and girls in my family and thought “there must be something wrong with me.” Plus I use to stuff my bra. But that was in middle school and I stopped after watching that episode of “As Told By Ginger.” I did not want to be embarrassed like that so I stopped as quickly as I started.

Like most people I grew up with people telling me I’m beautiful the way I am. Also like most people I didn’t start believing it until my sophomore or junior year of high school. I stopped wearing weaves and learned tried to learn how to take care of my natural hair. I’m still learning but my depression makes me “lazy.” It was a slow acceptance of my own beauty but I am glad that it’s almost complete.

I love my eyes, the color, the shape. Yeah, they aren’t unique but they are mine. I no longer think my nose is too big. In fact, it’s the perfect size for my face. I am obsessed with my dark skin now. I love how it glows under the sun. I love how thin I am but I do think I should put on more weight so I can be healthier. I love my small breast. I don’t have to wear bras or worry about back pain. And I love my natural hair. I need to take care of it. It’s currently breaking off and dry because I don’t do anything to it. In order for my to accept my natural beauty, I need to take better care of my hair and weight.

This probably won’t cure my depression but it might make it easier to deal with. I can not imagine going to the mirror and hating myself through and through. Not able to see the beauty in me. I am grateful that I have accepted looks thus far.

Won’t get better for me

things will get better with time

they always say and sometimes

they are correct but when the

sadness lasts for months and

when the anxiety from not being

successful keeps you in bed paralyzed

by fear of trying again and again and

again and still getting nowhere don’t

hate me when i say and believe that

it won’t get better for me


No other creature

has to make

the same choices

we do on the daily

No other creature

has to choose a path

they wish to walk

for the rest of their life

Like we do

They just exist

I desire

that freedom

to exist

The Fog

a day

is either

too beautiful

for me

to enjoy

or not

beautiful enough

for me

to be


it’s like i have a veil of fog in front of me

obscuring my vision distorting the beauty around me

but i desperately want to see it and enjoy it

but the fog doesn’t go away

still i

pretend to

enjoy the

beauty around

me so

eventually i

can see

beyond the