I wrote a thing

Is there an “order” to falling? Can you grow a strong bond until it leaves breadcrumbs to a new and intense feeling?

Is it real?

Can you trust it? Are the labels that surround you built the right way? Should you use them? Or destroy them and build your own? Do you know how? Do you have the right tools? Are you prepared, really and truly prepared? Or will you ever be?

How can one emotion feel like drowning and suffocating, yet flying and soaring all at once? How can you look at someone for so long and then finally see them? Were you just hiding behind a

theory that someone else taught you?

But you can’t deny the four letter words running through your mind—explicatives at first. After all, you were raised with them, hardened by them. The utter stupidity you feel for the ease and speed of it all. The carelessness of your fall. The fear in your heart and soul.

You are angry at yourself for feeling so goddamn vulnerable. The words in your head are muddled with softer, gentler hues and emotions. Colors of pale pink earthworms. Textures of massaged clay, stolen away from the innocent side of a river bank. They wrap your tongue in a sun-kissed peat moss and finally-

You say them out loud. Unsure and alone in your room.

They feel good, warm and round.

But there are still the other words.

The angry words, swirling around in your brain making you feel small and insecure- ordering you to say every last one of these words out loud. Both the tornados and the peat moss. OUT.


You scream them out loud.

You feel rushed, too soon, too soon, out of “order”, what is “order”? TOOsoontoosoontooSOON

Order, ORDER! Silence!

You scream them out loud and hold your breath.

You pray to whatever g-o-d you believe in that this insane feeling is reciprocated. Then, I suppose, you die—from holding your breath too long and heartbreak—or both. OR

You move on, move on falling, but you keep going.

The words keep tumbling in my brain, massaging every part of my cerebrum. Getting increasingly hot, sticky and trapped. ANGRY. Angry that I won’t let them out. The explicatives roll around, tossing the affection around with them, bubbly and hissing as I beat them away from my tongue.

My heart is faint and weak from fighting a battle of bursts of emotions. It throbs, defeated and looks at me, nodding. It capitulates, allowing the brain to unleash its hot fury of words meddling with the hearts emotions until finally-

I burst out.

I fucking love you.

After 40 years of impoverished black men getting prison time for selling weed, white men are planning to get rich doing the same things. So that’s why I think we have to start talking about reparations for the war on drugs. How do we repair the harms caused?

Michelle Alexander  (via lugardepiedras)

Always reblog, because I’ve noticed the media salivating over all these *white* weed entrepreneurs for being so “ingenious” and “savvy businessmen”, while ignoring the the mostly Black, Brown and poor victims and survivors of Amerikkka’s “War On Drugs”, and the ongoing racist and classist injustices that keep locking away Black, Brown and poor people in masses while giving white people who commit the same offenses less or no jail time at all.

(via the-uncensored-she)