There is something about being in close proximity to a butch woman that makes me go a little fluttery inside – kind of melty and shy, and occasionally, bold. Perhaps this is accentuated by the fact that butches are becoming rare and precious in my particular corner of the universe, but when and wherever they cross my path, something within me sits up and takes notice – because I share the other side of the secret. I know the special magic that happens when female yin meets female yang, and the opposite polarity locks us together like magnets caught up in each other’s sway.
I’m beginning to see a trend, where lipstick lesbians and glamorously androgynous sirens rule. Many of the women that I meet definitely trends more towards feminine women seeking the same. Believe me, I appreciate that dynamic. I’ve been there, and still, on occasion, find it lovely country to learn and love and grow in, but for me – it’s not quite home.
I am a femme lesbian who desires butch lesbians. I derive from this identity, from this dynamic, a sense of satisfaction, of completion so sweet that I can hardly begin to articulate it. And yet, from time to time, I hear this complex, richly diverse way of relating boiled down to something like, “If that’s what you like, why not just date a dude?”
I don’t pretend to understand my preference for women on the masculine side of the gender spectrum anymore than I understand why I am attracted to women in the first place. It just is. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, “this is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your problem.”
The musk of good cologne clinging to curves does wicked, wicked things to me. My particular cup of tea happens to be butch tops, which, as a group, have elevated the art of pushing a girl up against a wall and kissing her into senselessness to searingly electric new heights.
I love the confidence, and if you throw in the occasional moment of innocent bashfulness, that melts me to my core. I love the smirk. But that confidence thing, that phantom butch phallus thing – that slays me. And I’m not just talking about sexual head space; I’m talking about a particular kind of masculine energy residing in a female mind and body, and the way that turns traditional conceptions of what it means to be a man or a woman upside down. I’m talking about the underlying strength of character required to live and present as a butch woman not only in mainstream society, but also in a gay community that all too often fails to appreciate them. I’m talking about the power that comes with unabashedly just being who you are, even when it’s not the popular thing to do.
I love the way a butch can walk into a room and command the attention of everyone in it. I love that uniquely self-assured way of moving through the world and the safe haven I’ve found again and again in those arms.
I don’t think there is anything sexier on the planet than an intelligent, articulate, well-mannered gentle butch, who knows when to take, and when to yield – the perfect marriage of hard and soft, before I ever enter the picture. I love butch women and the ways, in which they define themselves, describe themselves, manifest out in the world as women who embody butchness only serve to further pique my interest, my esteem, and my longing.
Maybe I’m just looking for Prince Charming in a woman’s body, heart and soul, but the point is, I’m rewriting the fairytale to fit who I am – my strength to match hers. We compliment each other, coming from different sides of the spectrum, reaffirming our very identities in simply wanting one another. We meet somewhere in the middle, and make of it what we will. And in an L World that all too often seems to offer no place of honor, if any place at all, to my beloved butches – consider this testament a love song.
(Skye created the ning network Black Lesbian Friend 40+ at http://blfriends.ning.com/. I am thrilled to have her piece published on Deyes Karayib. )
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Left Behind (Finished for Now)
Left Behind
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
No
Not in that same place-
the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace
Not from that place
where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)
not in that place
of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams
not from that place...
where I laid
naked
in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...
...that I gave
under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies
I gave
the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak
in a word: all of me
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
No
Not in that same place-
the barefoot on wet shower floor space
the dry heaving, chest collapsing place
not that half sleep/stumbling pace
Not from that place
where these lips crack
from neglect and under/use
where this brow furrows
from deep incandescent
soul searching truths
where thieves take from pockets
unearned souf (breath)
not in that place
of broken-words
and broken-ness
and un-done seams
in broken dreams
not from that place...
where I laid
naked
in those wilderness parts
frail hands my only guards
against the elements
against the malcontent
within this heart...
...that I gave
under the absence of pretense
without the guise of
repentant lies
I gave
the cradle
where my soul sleeps
the moments
between my heart beats
the womb
where my children speak
in a word: all of me
In Miami
© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre
There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.
Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.
The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.
I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.
This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.
Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.
And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.
There is a place in Miami where you can get American Processed Cheese Food for pennies per pre-wrapped slice. Imagine my surprise and gratitude the day I discovered this. Surprise as Abuelo casually shuffled the tepidly chilled slices in the cold food case with deft fingers, dropping slice on slice till he reached my desired 1/4 pound request. Gratitude that thankfully, I was not the first to make such a demand on his time. Time I can only imagine could be filled playing dominos while reminiscing about days that would have never left their history in my blood or dared to course through my veins. So that in the silence that hobbled together English or broken dreams bring, Abuelo handed over my parcel, taking time to stare at me through hollow semi-glazed Cuban cafecito eyes. Never seeing me nor marking my existence in this life, however brief; though his quick retreat back behind the cold case, ready to serve no other patrons at that moment but me, signaled his notion that, It is hard times for us all Mija.
Papery cast-off onion skins, dried salt fish, thawing chicken leg quarters, mottled sour orange, bagged star anise, boniato and ripe-too-long bananas lend each other their scents, shake hands fiercely, hurl common insults to one another and greet you at the door. The very same that had it belonged to a chain of stores say, would have been fully automatic and in functioning order. Instead, this door, hangs dejectedly on its hinges, while remaining propped open with a wad of old store flyers or maybe even a rock.
The first time I entered into this Saturday morning market day place, I fully expected to see free range chickens, if not a baby goat running loose. Though it is inside of doors and I am sure the air conditioner would work, if they would have just turned it on. But they didn't. Not that day or for many of the other days I made my way through their aisles. Aisles that seemed to have no particular rhyme nor reason, order or concern that there was soap next to cereal next to canned items though the over-head aisle marker said that pet food and bug spray were supposed to be there, even though there wasn't any that I could find.
I simultaneously loved and hated that place in the way that my last four dollars were able to buy a loaf of bread, 1/4 pound cold case sliced turkey, 1/4 pound pre-wrapped cheese slices, 2 25¢ bags of chips and a two-liter Sprite-like soda. Hated that this, was the only place left where I was able to spend those last four dollars. And I knew there would be more money to come, I knew there would be a check in the mail, on its way to me, with about a years worth of salary typed on it. My prize, my retirement come to usher me into a new Life. But that would come later. Right now?, my hope began to wane under the taunting of hunger and silence, those Devil's Advocates and the embarrassment that I had four dollars left and that this, was how and where I would spend it.
This was also the place I remembered my Mother the most. I saw her face in the faces of those other Haitian women. The ones who wrapped their heads in dire cotton scarves and pulled a hat over it all, like no one would notice or see. Though my own Mother, never left the house without her hair at least in a ponytail. Those women who carried their purses in the crook of their arms and expertly maneuvered the shopping cart with their free hand, while eyeing the produce with suspicion. Though my own Mother, seemed to approach the produce with a vengeance, determined to make the pile of fruit or vegetables give up only their best to her. I saw my mother in the bags of finely ground cornmeal used to make la bouye, in the speckly red-brown boniato she would boil during winter and serve with warm milk and sugar. I smelled her in the busted plastic bottle of Florida water that she would use for spring cleaning; in the hurricane candles, brightly sitting in their tall glass containers, waiting on the shelf to be bought for lighting during a storm or maybe in prayer to a saint. That place haunted me with pieces of my Mother.
Upon returning home, I would always feel at a loss, like I left something behind, like I needed to go back and pick up one something more. Once more to that place and I would peer in the watercress maybe, in the carrots, in the celery, the malanga, red skinned potatoes, onions, stew beef, the Maggi seasoning, hoping maybe the sweet boniato would bring it together for me. Once home again, stirring and slicing, peeling and browning - all would bob up and down, nodding recognition like long lost neighbors in the big pot, half filled with water, a bit of salt, some tears, a pinch of regret and maybe, if I could find it, love. As the smells mingled and hurtled shouts to one another in the bubbling boiling pot, I found the history of my Haitian people in my veins, the roiling unsettled nature of a people in revolt. A revolt I managed to stage every time I left my house or opened my mouth in opposition. I saw the stories of my Mother and her growings up take shape in the fierce steam rising above the pot. Heard those unspoken words of my Mother whispering to me from the tear-salt broth.
And for the first time since leaving behind the security that my life had amassed in the past ten years, I felt okay... I was okay.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
When You Cry
© 2009 Sandra Jean-Pierre
It came like turbulence from a butterfly's wing. She barely realized it had been a kiss; if it were not for the mango and slight metallic woman taste left on her lips and in the air exhaled into her space, she would have just assumed it, this was all a dream.
Her brow furrowed, afraid to open, while stinging tears punched their way from beneath her lids. A slight breath, almost a hiccup, almost a moan, not quite a yelp, fought for existence outside of her throat. Her eyelashes turned pitch black from the moisture as her nostrils flared and her bottom lip and chin quivered.
She wasn't sure, in the way of picking between two pairs of decidedly black shoes, in the way of choosing between equally ripe fruit, in the way of giving to this now or giving into it later. It was not even really a matter of choice, it was more like a matter of small realizations and resignations that this was happening and either she held on for the ride or she got off... for now. But much in the way of all things, some thing had to happen.
The rustle of clothes or movement confused her further and before the wave of indecision could subside, firm, hot lips pressed onto hers, then backed away, then came in more gentle; not demanding her lips part but not taking her non-reactive 'No' for a definite answer either. Those firm lips brushed ever so gently, prodding ever so slightly with mango/metallic scented tongue, which captured her top lip and tickled it feathery soft. What was there to resist?
With nothing left to do she opened her lips, loosened her clenched jaw and let go of a dry sigh that managed to escape captivity from her chest. She felt it then- the warmth of hope, the nervous heat of desire married with abandon. She flinched.
I cannot do this! I cannot do this again - Oh God! OH GOD!
With eyes finally open and through a blurry haze, she focused on the woman before her. Backing away, she spied the heavy sad drops that rolled down the cheeks that were in such proximity to hers. Those eyes though were closed. Those lashes though were golden and dark with tears. She saw the well worked hands reach up and wipe away their owners disappointment.
"I was hoping..." The words whispered onto themselves, almost lost to sound.
She gazed before her, trying to beat the emotions that had eviscerated her speech, into submission, trying to find one more justification, one more phrase that didn't sound like 'I'm Sorry'. Because she wasn't - not for sending her away or brushing her off. She wasn't sorry that this woman in front of her kept on coming back.
But she was sorry that her hardness, that part within her that would not relent, made this woman cry. What heartless beast had she given birth to in her chest? From what fount of self-loathing or hate did she nurse it? And worst of all, why did she keep it so close to her heart?
This isn't just about Ano'i... it's about Me too, what I want. The small needful space within her pleaded. I matter in this, I have a choice... I-
She placed the heels of her hands on Ano'i's thighs, inching closer to the crotch of her jeans. Ano'i kept her eyes half mast, daring not to move in this moment. Nava leaned in closer, rubbing her nose against Ano'i's, running her cheek against her's, putting their foreheads together. She closed her eyes and absently found Ano'i's lips. Tentatively she kissed them, pulled back slightly, forwards again she took Ano'i's bottom lip between her teeth, then let go, kissing this time with more intent.
Without asking permission, small mournful moans bubbled up from what felt like the seat of her yoni. She couldn't stop them, couldn't quell the plaintive sounds that accompanied each kiss. Ano'i seemed to be responding in kind - her own moans sounding like small whispers of ...oh..., apologetic, reverent, honored, coy - like a well pleased partner, proud.
Then the sobs came - from Nava. She pulled away from her kissing and put the back of her left hand to her lips. Overwhelmed, she did not expect that it would feel like this, even now. Her body shook with the need to be touched again, to be pleased again, to be loved. But she didn't know that it would be like this, this vivid smell of sex and wanting, fear and fucking. She fully expected to be detached, just enough to get through the entire thing not to actually enjoy and want it.
Ano'i responded with more kissing, on her cheek and neck. Reaching beneath her blouse she felt for Nava's smallish breasts, kneeling between her legs, she pulled her bum forward on the chair cushion and kissed her belly, burying her nose in Nava's pant crotch when she was done. Looking through star struck eyes she inquired:
"Is this what you want? Is this okay?" Her voice seemed to dip an octave, adding fuel to Nava's already mounting fire.
Nava let out a small yelp of a yes before leaning all the way back in her chair and letting out the sobbing within her soul. It was long and low and primal and left her breathless. She reached down to her thighs and pulled Ano'i up the length of her body; their breasts touched through the fabric of their clothing, Ano'i's knee came up between Nava's legs, forcing out a satisfied whimpered.
"I would have waited for you... no matter how many times you sent me away. I would have waited..."
"I know. I know."
Nava kissed Ano'i deeply, as she felt the weightless shift from the comforts of her chair to the nothingness of the air in Ano'i's strong arms, then finally resting on the bed.
"I will cry through this... " Tears already lining up at the corners of her eyes.
"It doesn't matter. As long as this is what you want, it doesn't matter."
She realized this was more than what she wanted - it was what she needed. Like rain spilling through sun-cracked ground, she needed this loving. It wasn't like picking shoes or fruit, it was more like air and breathing. More like finally choosing to live rather than die.
It came like turbulence from a butterfly's wing. She barely realized it had been a kiss; if it were not for the mango and slight metallic woman taste left on her lips and in the air exhaled into her space, she would have just assumed it, this was all a dream.
Her brow furrowed, afraid to open, while stinging tears punched their way from beneath her lids. A slight breath, almost a hiccup, almost a moan, not quite a yelp, fought for existence outside of her throat. Her eyelashes turned pitch black from the moisture as her nostrils flared and her bottom lip and chin quivered.
She wasn't sure, in the way of picking between two pairs of decidedly black shoes, in the way of choosing between equally ripe fruit, in the way of giving to this now or giving into it later. It was not even really a matter of choice, it was more like a matter of small realizations and resignations that this was happening and either she held on for the ride or she got off... for now. But much in the way of all things, some thing had to happen.
The rustle of clothes or movement confused her further and before the wave of indecision could subside, firm, hot lips pressed onto hers, then backed away, then came in more gentle; not demanding her lips part but not taking her non-reactive 'No' for a definite answer either. Those firm lips brushed ever so gently, prodding ever so slightly with mango/metallic scented tongue, which captured her top lip and tickled it feathery soft. What was there to resist?
With nothing left to do she opened her lips, loosened her clenched jaw and let go of a dry sigh that managed to escape captivity from her chest. She felt it then- the warmth of hope, the nervous heat of desire married with abandon. She flinched.
I cannot do this! I cannot do this again - Oh God! OH GOD!
With eyes finally open and through a blurry haze, she focused on the woman before her. Backing away, she spied the heavy sad drops that rolled down the cheeks that were in such proximity to hers. Those eyes though were closed. Those lashes though were golden and dark with tears. She saw the well worked hands reach up and wipe away their owners disappointment.
"I was hoping..." The words whispered onto themselves, almost lost to sound.
She gazed before her, trying to beat the emotions that had eviscerated her speech, into submission, trying to find one more justification, one more phrase that didn't sound like 'I'm Sorry'. Because she wasn't - not for sending her away or brushing her off. She wasn't sorry that this woman in front of her kept on coming back.
But she was sorry that her hardness, that part within her that would not relent, made this woman cry. What heartless beast had she given birth to in her chest? From what fount of self-loathing or hate did she nurse it? And worst of all, why did she keep it so close to her heart?
This isn't just about Ano'i... it's about Me too, what I want. The small needful space within her pleaded. I matter in this, I have a choice... I-
She placed the heels of her hands on Ano'i's thighs, inching closer to the crotch of her jeans. Ano'i kept her eyes half mast, daring not to move in this moment. Nava leaned in closer, rubbing her nose against Ano'i's, running her cheek against her's, putting their foreheads together. She closed her eyes and absently found Ano'i's lips. Tentatively she kissed them, pulled back slightly, forwards again she took Ano'i's bottom lip between her teeth, then let go, kissing this time with more intent.
Without asking permission, small mournful moans bubbled up from what felt like the seat of her yoni. She couldn't stop them, couldn't quell the plaintive sounds that accompanied each kiss. Ano'i seemed to be responding in kind - her own moans sounding like small whispers of ...oh..., apologetic, reverent, honored, coy - like a well pleased partner, proud.
Then the sobs came - from Nava. She pulled away from her kissing and put the back of her left hand to her lips. Overwhelmed, she did not expect that it would feel like this, even now. Her body shook with the need to be touched again, to be pleased again, to be loved. But she didn't know that it would be like this, this vivid smell of sex and wanting, fear and fucking. She fully expected to be detached, just enough to get through the entire thing not to actually enjoy and want it.
Ano'i responded with more kissing, on her cheek and neck. Reaching beneath her blouse she felt for Nava's smallish breasts, kneeling between her legs, she pulled her bum forward on the chair cushion and kissed her belly, burying her nose in Nava's pant crotch when she was done. Looking through star struck eyes she inquired:
"Is this what you want? Is this okay?" Her voice seemed to dip an octave, adding fuel to Nava's already mounting fire.
Nava let out a small yelp of a yes before leaning all the way back in her chair and letting out the sobbing within her soul. It was long and low and primal and left her breathless. She reached down to her thighs and pulled Ano'i up the length of her body; their breasts touched through the fabric of their clothing, Ano'i's knee came up between Nava's legs, forcing out a satisfied whimpered.
"I would have waited for you... no matter how many times you sent me away. I would have waited..."
"I know. I know."
Nava kissed Ano'i deeply, as she felt the weightless shift from the comforts of her chair to the nothingness of the air in Ano'i's strong arms, then finally resting on the bed.
"I will cry through this... " Tears already lining up at the corners of her eyes.
"It doesn't matter. As long as this is what you want, it doesn't matter."
She realized this was more than what she wanted - it was what she needed. Like rain spilling through sun-cracked ground, she needed this loving. It wasn't like picking shoes or fruit, it was more like air and breathing. More like finally choosing to live rather than die.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I Don't Know
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
I Don't Know
... that I would be human if I didn't miss some of these things
some of these touching things
but I do
miss the way you smell after a shower
that clean sweet scent
of Dove and your skin
but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
how I miss the
feel of your skin
against my palms
as I contemplate
how your hair between my
fingers will be both wiry
and soft
but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
I miss those moments
in general
but not with you
not like that
not with you
not now
finally
your face has been
replaced
by this
all loving
all caring
place marker, in my mind
she has replaced all that
you never allowed
or conceded to,
and like that
I am realizing that I don't need you
to be those things
I've been so heartbroken for
those things that youth and living
have convinced you don't matter
after all
when they do
but you won't know that now
won't understand the
wealth that passed through
your hands
like gently held wind
but I am alright
with knowing I won't be there
in that 11th hour moment
for you
not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
cause I've finally
recognized the strength
in walking away.
I Don't Know
... that I would be human if I didn't miss some of these things
some of these touching things
but I do
miss the way you smell after a shower
that clean sweet scent
of Dove and your skin
but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
how I miss the
feel of your skin
against my palms
as I contemplate
how your hair between my
fingers will be both wiry
and soft
but not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
I miss those moments
in general
but not with you
not like that
not with you
not now
finally
your face has been
replaced
by this
all loving
all caring
place marker, in my mind
she has replaced all that
you never allowed
or conceded to,
and like that
I am realizing that I don't need you
to be those things
I've been so heartbroken for
those things that youth and living
have convinced you don't matter
after all
when they do
but you won't know that now
won't understand the
wealth that passed through
your hands
like gently held wind
but I am alright
with knowing I won't be there
in that 11th hour moment
for you
not like that
not like
you'd think
not now
cause I've finally
recognized the strength
in walking away.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Control
How do you think I make me feel?
When I throw myself at you like warm spaghetti clinging?
Only to slide down your wall of disapproval.
You think I don't know that there aren't enough plugs to fill the hole in my heart?
You think I can't feel that your kiss doesn't moisten a child's dry swollen eyes
or lips cracked while trying to get scream for her parent's attention?
Do you think I'm not reminded in every hug
that I can count on one hand every moment I've ever felt truly loved.
I slit my wrists and judge you for not knowing how to sew with no needles.
I jump off ledges knowing that the impact will probably kill us both.
I let you see me smile, laugh and dance like the Goddess invented percussion to the tune of my thighs
Knowing you won't be able to resist me.
I LET you objectify me
I LET you make me question my beliefs
I LET you make me
Over and over and over again
I LET you make me
Hoping that one day you won't rise to the occasion
and maybe, just maybe, I'll feel strong enough to walk away
When I throw myself at you like warm spaghetti clinging?
Only to slide down your wall of disapproval.
You think I don't know that there aren't enough plugs to fill the hole in my heart?
You think I can't feel that your kiss doesn't moisten a child's dry swollen eyes
or lips cracked while trying to get scream for her parent's attention?
Do you think I'm not reminded in every hug
that I can count on one hand every moment I've ever felt truly loved.
I slit my wrists and judge you for not knowing how to sew with no needles.
I jump off ledges knowing that the impact will probably kill us both.
I let you see me smile, laugh and dance like the Goddess invented percussion to the tune of my thighs
Knowing you won't be able to resist me.
I LET you objectify me
I LET you make me question my beliefs
I LET you make me
Over and over and over again
I LET you make me
Hoping that one day you won't rise to the occasion
and maybe, just maybe, I'll feel strong enough to walk away
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Sacrifice - Another One from the Archives
(I tear every time I read this one...)
Yet I mourn your life
As if my own
were being taken
Instead of yours
I looked into my own eyes
And felt your essence
pulse in my veins
I loved you
As much as i love you
And you always knew the difference
Blessings and Love
This might not be good poetry
But it's honest
You ARE life...
I barely knew youYet I mourn your life
As if my own
were being taken
Instead of yours
I looked into my own eyes
And felt your essence
pulse in my veins
I loved you
As much as i love you
And you always knew the difference
Blessings and Love
This might not be good poetry
But it's honest
Grey - An Oldie but Goodie (I Think...)
When we first met, I thought you were the most beautiful shade of grey I had ever seen.
I mean, you were the perfect proportion of black to white
Of day to night
Of blind to sight
Of wrong to right
And I just wanted to be a single pixelation in your makeup
But little did I know how easily thrown off you would be
Before you threw off me
And made your retreat
See I saw you in color and you saw me as imperfect.
A reflex I had thought to help you grow out of
But despite my best efforts, the fight ended with me hurt
And you moving on
And now your grey is covered in shades of delicate pastels and hues
that turn me green cuz i was supposed to be that person
and you are trying to paint another me
And it hurts in a way that I never expected it to
She isn't supposed to have the same thing as I do
we transcended mere conversation
You were a part of me as I was in you
And none of those parts equaled a third
I needed you to need only me for certain things
I needed others to fall short every damn time
Cuz no one could see you in all that matter
besides me
I mean, you were the perfect proportion of black to white
Of day to night
Of blind to sight
Of wrong to right
And I just wanted to be a single pixelation in your makeup
But little did I know how easily thrown off you would be
Before you threw off me
And made your retreat
See I saw you in color and you saw me as imperfect.
A reflex I had thought to help you grow out of
But despite my best efforts, the fight ended with me hurt
And you moving on
And now your grey is covered in shades of delicate pastels and hues
that turn me green cuz i was supposed to be that person
and you are trying to paint another me
And it hurts in a way that I never expected it to
She isn't supposed to have the same thing as I do
we transcended mere conversation
You were a part of me as I was in you
And none of those parts equaled a third
I needed you to need only me for certain things
I needed others to fall short every damn time
Cuz no one could see you in all that matter
besides me
Monday, December 08, 2008
Salt
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
paper
like that torn
too close to the fire piece that no one notices
I crinkle and curl up
turning light brown and smooth around my edges
bright embers
lava bright in the pinched darkness
dying to ethereal grayish smokes
to the sky
reaching to the sky...
at the bottom
the silt's silt
smooth
through my fingers
over my tongue
tasting the ocean's essence brine
back of my throat
choking on the raw bouquet
I swallow
looking only to the next
the other
this tomorrow I can never seem to catch up to
or with
to be beside
lost in right now
where everything seems fine
where every day
plants each foot in front of the next
where maybe, just may be things are just fine
just like I need it to be
so that I can make sense
in all that no one expected
more words few
existed
paper
like that torn
too close to the fire piece that no one notices
I crinkle and curl up
turning light brown and smooth around my edges
bright embers
lava bright in the pinched darkness
dying to ethereal grayish smokes
to the sky
reaching to the sky...
at the bottom
the silt's silt
smooth
through my fingers
over my tongue
tasting the ocean's essence brine
back of my throat
choking on the raw bouquet
I swallow
looking only to the next
the other
this tomorrow I can never seem to catch up to
or with
to be beside
lost in right now
where everything seems fine
where every day
plants each foot in front of the next
where maybe, just may be things are just fine
just like I need it to be
so that I can make sense
in all that no one expected
more words few
existed
Winter Over My Shoulder
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
we were supposed to be bound like
fresh cut
sugarcane stalks
in the bundle
of our lives -
intertwined
sweet,
reaching towards our sun
better
like how I wanted to be for you
under one roof
sharing one bed
meals of chicken parmigiana and sweet plantains
culinary fusions
straight dream transfusions
of Mamma, Momma and kiddie(s) make three (or four, more)
me for you
you for me
thinking back
to that imaginary time line
I can only think forward
to how many months
we would have been in connubial bliss
yet
I am this
side of changed
this side of coming to know
that I can love the wrong person
this side of wondering how much
I did and would have done
for your love
this side
of no longer catching feelings
of calculating decisions
of existing for reasons
other than love
my life
has never looked
the same
since you said "I love you"
faintly into the phone
I wish
even now
that you could
fade away as easily
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Lottery
What if I live in the parallel you don't exist in?
Somewhere else where we are happy and I (hopefully) am thin
Having found the perfect balance of without and within
We recognize the difference between privilege, hope and relevance.
What if you are too busy with your destiny?
On the verge of curing world famine or on the cusp of world peace
Your determination never meets my average feet
Me, in my office chair and you, in your presidential seat
What if I met you and I messed it all up?
While wallowing in my sea of insecurity and mistrust
You offered me water in gentle hands cupped
But I saw them as a my own masochistic hand cuffs
What if we have yet to meet?
And I have acquired wisdom and self esteem
Conquered my fears and history
Even balanced it all with a little therapy
What then?
Who would you be?
Even if you were in a good place,
would you be ready for me?
Life is nothing but chance
Love is a privilege denied to many
All wise, but it doesn't make me feel better
Somewhere else where we are happy and I (hopefully) am thin
Having found the perfect balance of without and within
We recognize the difference between privilege, hope and relevance.
What if you are too busy with your destiny?
On the verge of curing world famine or on the cusp of world peace
Your determination never meets my average feet
Me, in my office chair and you, in your presidential seat
What if I met you and I messed it all up?
While wallowing in my sea of insecurity and mistrust
You offered me water in gentle hands cupped
But I saw them as a my own masochistic hand cuffs
What if we have yet to meet?
And I have acquired wisdom and self esteem
Conquered my fears and history
Even balanced it all with a little therapy
What then?
Who would you be?
Even if you were in a good place,
would you be ready for me?
Life is nothing but chance
Love is a privilege denied to many
All wise, but it doesn't make me feel better
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Reincarnation
Forget Me Nots long forgotten
in a sea of ever eroding memories
I thought I'd live forever in your eyes
Now I can't recall the last time I lived at all
Menial tasks distract and placate, but never prevent
Novocaine is dripping in my heart's I.V.
I am terrified of not wanting
of giving up
of settling
It's never fair to barter crosses for validation
or burdens for contact
but i did
So even after the bumpy terrain
It might still be me leaking oil
What if intention cannot triumph over doubt?
Am I destined to be the hare?
So sure of my inability, that I won't even try to compete?
I refuse!
I appear before myself
conscious and willing
aching and triumphant
Finally ready to be hurt again
in a sea of ever eroding memories
I thought I'd live forever in your eyes
Now I can't recall the last time I lived at all
Menial tasks distract and placate, but never prevent
Novocaine is dripping in my heart's I.V.
I am terrified of not wanting
of giving up
of settling
It's never fair to barter crosses for validation
or burdens for contact
but i did
So even after the bumpy terrain
It might still be me leaking oil
What if intention cannot triumph over doubt?
Am I destined to be the hare?
So sure of my inability, that I won't even try to compete?
I refuse!
I appear before myself
conscious and willing
aching and triumphant
Finally ready to be hurt again
Saturday, September 06, 2008
F(f)ear
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
There is something to be said of fear.
Fear of some thing, often makes us not do, act, respond – which can often save us from harm. For example: fear of getting hurt, will cause us not to get in the way of a moving train.
With something as extreme as a moving train, the “positive” side of fear, can be seen, its use can be regarded. But more often than not, our fear of a thing unseen, thought up, imagined, is a lot more subtle, a lot more demur – it comes like a thief in the night, quiet as the wind and doubly unseen. Yet the stealth of fear in our own lives is no less catastrophic. We often live the train-wreck of our fears day in and day out and don’t even realize it. We often allow fear to steal right from our bosom (!!!) the very dreams, hopes, faith that aims to keep us going. We allow fear to go unchecked, like that bull in a china shop, till there is nothing left but pieces of what we once held dear.
I will be the first to say that fear drove many of my decisions and to an extent, drives some of the directions that I travel today. When I was a young adult and faced with the very real and very grown adult decisions of taking over the care of my siblings, our house, our living or dying – I experienced fear in a way that I hope and pray many people won’t ever know in their lives. Fear of letting our household go hungry, of being out on the streets, of sickness – those fears slept with me like a bridegroom in an arranged marriage. I felt like I had no choice, like things were set and there was nothing that I would be able to do to change the course of this arrangement.
I ate with Fear - that this would be one of the few meals I would have that week.
I worked in Fear - that I would not do well enough in order to keep my job.
I prayed in Fear - that I was asking G-d for too much all the time (for our needs were great).
I lived in Fear.
Then one day, I decided that Fear began to wear out its intrusion.
If Fear of not having enough to eat wanted to sit with me when I ate, then we would break bread and enjoy the meal that was before me.
If Fear of losing my job wanted to spend its day working with me, hovering over every decision and action I preformed while doing my work, then we would work all day, like work was going out of style.
If Fear of asking too much of G-d wanted to kneel down and pray with me, then we would do the thing and pray till G-d’s ear damn near fell off from my incantations, from my asking, from my sheer audacity.
I came to the conclusion that if Fear wanted to live around me, then it could but I was not going live in it.
And it was difficult at first, to find the courage, to summon back my dreams, to reassert faith in who I was made to be. It was a daily intention to take back my Self from the Fear that surrounded me.
Fear kept me, in many forms and permutations, from living.
I have to state this – we are not born with (F)fear. It doesn’t appear right beside us when we emerge into the world, it’s not playing hopscotch with us when we are children and no, that is not it pictured on the right, in our vacation pictures. And no matter what anyone tells you – (F)fear does not become us.
So, imagine my surprise when it occurred to me that Fear had crept into my bosom once again. I mean, it might as well have been the underwire to my bra, the taste in my breath, a slightly veiled sensation on my skin.
Again.
Fear has a way of making us convince ourselves that we cannot achieve what we were tailor made to do.
I was having a talk with my sister-in-law the other night, about school. She was in the kitchen cooking and I was at the dining room table reading one of the 50 bazillion books for this semester.
It is probably with some exaggeration that I am assuming that nearly half of Miami has heard about my trepidation in continuing my education at FIU (Florida International University). If I could have a tantrum (of which I am wholly capable, mind you) it would sound something like this:
…but I don’t WANNA GO!!!!!!! I know a lot of things!! I read a lot, I can write… It’s just a STUPID piece of paper!! Ggggaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh – I DON’T WANNAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! :::tearstearstears:::
Please don’t make me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, in talking to my sister-in-law, I was trying to detail to her, exactly how asinine and ridiculous this whole thing was…
…I mean, I have three classes and three papers to write in each – between 8 to 10 pages EACH PAPER!! How am I gonna have the time to do that?!? It’s only like 12 weeks or so of school! Plus I have my graphic design class where I’m gonna have to build soap boxes and crazy things! And I just realized that I have a steep set of classes to take.
And to imagine, I have already decided that I want to get my MFA in English (poetry) at UM where I’m gonna have to write a book of 150 pages worth of poetry!!! (!!!!!) :::bigSIGH:::
And my sister-in-laws’ sagacious response?
I haven’t heard you say anything that you can’t do.
That statement made all the whizzing thoughts in my mind come to a stand-still. I took one proverbial look to my left and realized that F(f)ear had its feet propped on top of my most prized wishes and dreams. With his shoes off. Did I happen to mention that F(f)ear has really stink feet?
My belly-aching concerning attending FIU has been in large part, due to fear. It’s not the young adults in attendance, it is not how far the campus is, and it is not the difficulty of the classes.
I fear failing at the things I have held so dear to me – poetry, writing, and reading. Imagine that.
I fear going through all those classes (that might reveal :::gasp::: any weaknesses!!!) and not actually acing all of them.
I fear disappointing myself, most of all.
But what I am failing to realize is that I’m not just any person taking these classes. I am not meeting these classes, nay, this degree, cold. I analyze, think and write about the world around me ALL.THE.TIME., I’ve been writing poetry since I was 13, I was part of a poetry group for a number of years, where I had to actually get in front of PEOPLE and perform. And they liked what I wrote. They liked how I thought about things. They enjoyed hearing what it is I had to say.
There is this movie I watched the other night (thanks to Netflix) called Babette’s Feast. It is one of those international numbers, subtitled like no one’s business. And I won’t give the story away but into the laps of these pair of sisters, lands this woman named Babette. Unbeknownst to the sisters, Babette is a chef of the kind that people would come from far and wide to eat in her restaurant. So good was her food.
For allowing her refuge, Babette becomes the cook/housekeeper for the sisters. Years go by and this once renowned chef, brings small rays of sunshine into the belly’s of some of the townsfolk by cooking for them, while the sisters deliver the food to the towns’ shut-in and infirm.
Word arrives via a letter, to Babette one year that she has come into 10,000francs. This also happens to be the year of the sisters’ fathers’ 100th birthday (he had passed some time ago). In thanks, still to the sisters, Babette asks if she can prepare the dinner, in honor of the sisters’ fathers’ birthday. Reluctantly, the sisters say yes and caution Babette not to use all of her money.
Well, the check Babette receives is changed, Babette takes leave and preparations begin for this memorial dinner. Chest upon chest of specialty foods arrive with Babette’s return.
The day of the memorial arrives and Babette had spent all the day before and hence cooking. She sets an elaborate table with fine china and wonderful crystal and the most pristine tablecloth. Using a young neighbor as the waiter, Babette turns out course after course, over course over course. Wine and champagne flow. The 12 guests, not used to such luxurious eating, are beside themselves.
Once everyone has gone home for the night, the sisters go to Babette in thanks for such a wonderful memorial dinner. They find Babette sitting in the kitchen, exhausted. They thank her and ask her, now that she is done, what were her plans, for surely she would be on her way back to France.
She tells them that she has nothing left in France and besides, there is no money.
The sisters are shocked.
Babette tells them that at her restaurant, a dinner like that, for 12, would cost 10,000francs and that was what she spent.
The color drains from the sisters’ faces. How could you?! We asked you not to spend all of your money! Now, now you have nothing, they told her.
Babette raised her face to them and said,
…I am not just a cook. I am an artist, I will always have something.
Before and after this part of my journey, I will have something. I will have my unique perspective, I will have my ability to touch the world in a way like no one else can. This diploma and any and all that may follow, will serve only to acknowledge and formalize by society’s standards, that part of what I know, that can be put into conventions.
I am an artist, I will always have something.
I wasn’t put here, I wasn’t made, I wasn’t given these gifts to be small and peevish about them and let F(f)ear of what may or may not happen, destroy what I can only come to understand as G-d-given talent.
And that is what I must carry with me through this journey called FIU. That is what must become my mantra, when it feels like F(f)ear is about to overwhelm me.
Realize that in you too, there is always something. Regardless of what F(f)ear tells you, no matter how seductive the deceit, how promising the thought of staying small. You always have something. Even if F(f)ear slides in under the covers of your confidence, whispering sweet perceived failures in your ear, or flashes the fruits of in-action before your eyes, you will always have something of Self, with which to create your dreams with, to pull your courage from, and to exert your faith in.
Don’t be afraid… go.
You can do it.
Cause you know what?
That Fear, can’t live here…anymore.
Learn
© 2008 Sandra Jean-Pierre
How will you meet me?
hands out front
alluring
luring me to you?
How will you
coolly meet this primal
gesture of affection?
palms out front
hands to the sky
How will you meet me?
Out on these roads
walking the walk of living folks living
revisiting the melancholy
of your love and loving
arms out front
hands above your ethereal hair
how will you meet
me this day?
this hour?
this direction?
I am finding myself
veering into
away from
converging
standing in this mire
knee deep in this shit
I am running into you
You are slamming into me
I am meeting your flame
You are matching my fire...
heart to heart
hand in hand
fear to fear
lips a kiss
and we are not moving
we are not running
life is not un-doing
itself like cellophane dreams
fist full of doubt
from my chest
to the sun
burning
I scream (!!!!!)
the scream of warriors
not afraid to die
you staring down my apprehensions
me singing incantations of your truth
getting lost
lost in the words of words of feelings with no names
meeting me there
meeting me in the
fires' centers' center
NO! NO! NO!
I've no warnings
no strings
no survival guides
How will you meet me?
How will you meet me?
hands out front
alluring
luring me to you?
How will you
coolly meet this primal
gesture of affection?
palms out front
hands to the sky
How will you meet me?
Out on these roads
walking the walk of living folks living
revisiting the melancholy
of your love and loving
arms out front
hands above your ethereal hair
how will you meet
me this day?
this hour?
this direction?
I am finding myself
veering into
away from
converging
standing in this mire
knee deep in this shit
I am running into you
You are slamming into me
I am meeting your flame
You are matching my fire...
heart to heart
hand in hand
fear to fear
lips a kiss
and we are not moving
we are not running
life is not un-doing
itself like cellophane dreams
fist full of doubt
from my chest
to the sun
burning
I scream (!!!!!)
the scream of warriors
not afraid to die
you staring down my apprehensions
me singing incantations of your truth
getting lost
lost in the words of words of feelings with no names
meeting me there
meeting me in the
fires' centers' center
NO! NO! NO!
I've no warnings
no strings
no survival guides
How will you meet me?
Monday, July 28, 2008
If...
If...
If...
If...
If you exist
Then I exist for you
If you resist
I will become irresistable
If you need air to live
Then I offer my next inhale
If you have love to give
I beg to be your vessel
I'd let you bleed me dry if it would make you claim me
I would gladly die for a chance to let you save me
I am offering you utter devotion
In exchange for a compliment
So tell me PLEASE, how your intentions compare to that?
My One Semi-Funny Poem
I hate my fucking bed.
Constantly reminding me you aren't in it
I bought it with the intention of you leaving your imprint
Little did I know you'd be leaving it a little closer to home
I fucking hate my fucking cell phone
79.99 a month to remind me you haven't called
AND I REFUSE TO REDUCE IT!
On the hope that I'll use it
On either you or some new chick
I guess we'll just have to see
I have so much motherfucking TIME!
I could say that I'm using it to focus on me
But I'd be motherfucking lying
All dressed up with not a damn place to go
So i broke the bed...
And I threw away my phone...
And I've finally embraced going out alone
BIG GIRLS ARE DOING IT ON THEIR OWN!
Excuse me, what?
You want my number?
You want to come over?
DAMN!
Constantly reminding me you aren't in it
I bought it with the intention of you leaving your imprint
Little did I know you'd be leaving it a little closer to home
I fucking hate my fucking cell phone
79.99 a month to remind me you haven't called
AND I REFUSE TO REDUCE IT!
On the hope that I'll use it
On either you or some new chick
I guess we'll just have to see
I have so much motherfucking TIME!
I could say that I'm using it to focus on me
But I'd be motherfucking lying
All dressed up with not a damn place to go
So i broke the bed...
And I threw away my phone...
And I've finally embraced going out alone
BIG GIRLS ARE DOING IT ON THEIR OWN!
Excuse me, what?
You want my number?
You want to come over?
DAMN!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Time Out!
Every adult needs a time out from time to time.
Time to reflect. Time to isolate.
Time to become aware, to understand one's actions.
Nothing wrong with forcing oneself into the corner for 15mns in adult year.
It sucks to face the wall. But the wall can be the best friend ever.
Witnessing our wailing with no judgments.
Allowing us to purge.
Presenting us with a mirror to face ourselves.
Oh, Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the most miserable of all?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Coming Out
i should have known i was in trouble
when my heart started beating to the rhythm of your step
when my lungs patiently awaited your next breath.
knowing it wouldn't be fair to the air to not share you
you satisfy me in places i never knew yearned to be sated
all the troubles in my world have now been negated
and your silhouette?
should forever be marked x-rated
i bow before the power of you
woman...
lord knows it was inevitable
when my heart started beating to the rhythm of your step
when my lungs patiently awaited your next breath.
knowing it wouldn't be fair to the air to not share you
you satisfy me in places i never knew yearned to be sated
all the troubles in my world have now been negated
and your silhouette?
should forever be marked x-rated
i bow before the power of you
woman...
lord knows it was inevitable
Sunday, May 25, 2008
This Face
© 2002 Sandra Jean-Pierre
I am looking to name this face
something other than
black
womyn
lesbian
disabled
bitch...?
I am looking for a name for this face
other than the smiles that have kept me
want and waiting
in this space
lost in time
pretty unlikley that it will be something
i have had in my mind
but
I am looking for a name for this face
as i am in search for
someone who has that strength i crave
the strength that keeps me
moaning through your name
every time i am masterbating
in this silence that
compounds my grief
I am looking to name this face
that submissively declares my
faltering for not possessing
the life affirming charisma that is
your lesbian boi smell
and i smell you
i smell your loving
i smell your fucking me
i smell your enfolding arms
taking me and keeping me
making me safe... at last
I need to name the face
that will look into your eyes
devouring your soul
pregnant by your courage
smiling at our life...
the life you enabled me to birth
from the depths of my fiel...
honey?
baby?
sweetie?
wife?
I need to name this face: Me
simply...
to let you know
It's Me.
I am looking to name this face
something other than
black
womyn
lesbian
disabled
bitch...?
I am looking for a name for this face
other than the smiles that have kept me
want and waiting
in this space
lost in time
pretty unlikley that it will be something
i have had in my mind
but
I am looking for a name for this face
as i am in search for
someone who has that strength i crave
the strength that keeps me
moaning through your name
every time i am masterbating
in this silence that
compounds my grief
I am looking to name this face
that submissively declares my
faltering for not possessing
the life affirming charisma that is
your lesbian boi smell
and i smell you
i smell your loving
i smell your fucking me
i smell your enfolding arms
taking me and keeping me
making me safe... at last
I need to name the face
that will look into your eyes
devouring your soul
pregnant by your courage
smiling at our life...
the life you enabled me to birth
from the depths of my fiel...
honey?
baby?
sweetie?
wife?
I need to name this face: Me
simply...
to let you know
It's Me.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Help
Hey Baby...
You see...
I was kind of wondering if maybe,
You'd let me...
Can I hold your hand?...
I know we just met
But it would make a world of difference
Because I've been sinking
And I'm thinking that if you reached out to me
I'll find my way to safety...
And then maybe I just might,
make it through tonight
And even save a little
for tomorrow too
See, baby, all the power is within you
And it's hard enough just being this vulnerable
Because, please trust, it is damn uncomfortable
Acknowledging even the smallest weakness
See, I'm not asking for a kidney
I'm asking you to be uncomfortable with me
And admit that within my palm
might lie home
and that neither one of us
are half as self sufficient as we'd hoped
But it's ok
Because two halves make a whole
But damn, if we don't connect
When our hands intersect
And I'm sure that you're a little overwhelmed
But I got this
I'm just asking for a little help
You see...
I was kind of wondering if maybe,
You'd let me...
Can I hold your hand?...
I know we just met
But it would make a world of difference
Because I've been sinking
And I'm thinking that if you reached out to me
I'll find my way to safety...
And then maybe I just might,
make it through tonight
And even save a little
for tomorrow too
See, baby, all the power is within you
And it's hard enough just being this vulnerable
Because, please trust, it is damn uncomfortable
Acknowledging even the smallest weakness
See, I'm not asking for a kidney
I'm asking you to be uncomfortable with me
And admit that within my palm
might lie home
and that neither one of us
are half as self sufficient as we'd hoped
But it's ok
Because two halves make a whole
But damn, if we don't connect
When our hands intersect
And I'm sure that you're a little overwhelmed
But I got this
I'm just asking for a little help
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