A black magazine for people too hip for black magazines. 

I walk around with an untold story tucked just beneath my tongue.

I walk around with an untold story tucked just beneath my tongue.


I leave it there in anticipation that I’ll come across the right person, at the right time, in the right circumstance to share it with. I keep it just beyond freedom because I’ve found that my world doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

It’s an odd, discomforting feeling…

Entering spaces in muted fashion, indefinitely toned down, tamed for the sake of those who can’t handle the full version. But if I were who I am, without boundaries, how would I be perceived? Rambling like a madman about a type of love I’m convinced exists because every time I think about it I want to implode…

Scribbling lines and muttering things like, “If I describe it just good enough maybe I could harness it.”

How would that go?

If I were me like I am in my head, losing train of thought on things that could never quite matter as much as what I yearn for, who would deal?

Until now, I’ve always heard that everyone wants to be loved. Why doesn’t anyone talk about the ones who desperately want to pour love into others? What about the ones who want to care for others? The ones who have been hurt time and time again, but refuse to become disenchanted with the notion because — if not love, then what?

Let me be clear.

I don’t mean seeking dependency with the intent of taking advantage of someone’s vulnerability.

I mean to encapsulate it in the most comprehensive but freeing way…

Love, like they’ve never experienced before — and would be hard-pressed to find again after. I tread lightly, being heavy-footed and barely wanting to make contact in fear that I’d call attention to myself. Instead I resort to scribing ideal circumstances, fantasies and daydreams at random on scrap paper and candy wrappers. Reserving my right to remain silent has become a survival tactic. A defense of sorts against ending up jaded.

I decided after one too many heartbreaks that the most intimate parts of me were the ones I would be the most selective with. Access isn’t simply for everyone who asks.

I walk around with an untold story tucked just beneath my tongue…

Retaining my sense of safety…

Waiting until I can throw caution to the wind…

Impatiently waiting for the one who inspires me to disregard uncertainty.

When the Water Breaks

When the Water Breaks

The Audacity of the Praying Black Mother

The Audacity of the Praying Black Mother