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in-between love


been trying to centre myself/prioritise my mental health/wellbeing/spirit this week to realise how many things we can do to self-harm/punish ourselves when we do not love ourselves or see ourselves worthy of even our own kindness and care. there are times i feel like as imperfect and flawed as i am i’ve worked on becoming someone i want to be and yet simultaneously do these destructive things that remind me that even now i can hate myself in a way i had never done so before. it’s a battle to constantly want to be and do better, especially when doing work that is justice/equality/love as a political praxis focused. it can take a lot out of you and the pressure to build meaningfully can really have serious strain when you’re trying to do healing work on yourself too but don’t feel worthy of it because there is shit out there is so much weightier. i feel like sometimes i’ve not been fully honest or been courageous enough to confront my own mental health that for the past few years in light of a number of things has really at times brought me into lows i had never experienced or hadn’t experienced since i was a child - that i’d sometimes label as a kind of growing pain. at the beginning of the week i had to say to myself for the first time that like i believe others are worthy and deserving, i too am, that i have to be better to and for myself. sometimes i wonder if self-harm in its many forms for those of who are politically active particularly in a system of so many constraints is not jus reflective of the personal traumas we experience but the real strain and weight of carrying the traumas of others in justice work? maybe? i don’t know…

  1. you are like scaffolding, my love: holding up things that are were destined to have collapsed. 
  2. i think of your body as a measure of perimeters and grow lonely. how strange a thing it was to think of you as both body and ghost, and now you are memory i have no name for. 
  3. when he thinks of his voice over things like the rain or a train running through the city or his father beating his mother and the silence, good god the silence is a welcomed triumph. 
  4. your ex girlfriend is drinking too much and flirting between you and a boy and you take to the wine because anywhere and here you are meant to be almost but not quite but always and barely there. your bodies touched once.
  5. i would have drawn it out this long, i would have done more than made a poem out of you but you little boy are a haiku for the winters i grew out of myself into a woman. and sure maybe then and now i think of you as the lie i have told myself in the breath of many. 
  6. you try to think of all the reasons you should stay like how maybe he wears good shoes or matching socks and doesn’t lose them in the wash or even how his hands are elegant even though they are large and he has a shade of brown that wishes kashmir had never taken so much of the south indian out of you yet nothing is ever reason enough to stay. everything has been fleeting and as temporary as both your happiness and sadness, like the borders you have come to forgive, as never being yours. 
  7. 'look,' you tell him, 'this whole universe is made up of so much dark matter that what good is it if we give up so much to a whiteness our melanin can swallow up into nothing? what good is it if we keep chasing whiteness like stars when they were born and die out of us?' and you do a smart thing in that moment like hand both a map of the galaxy and a body and ask him to compare the details of what will only save you in the end. 
  8. he listens, he tries so hard to listen, to follow the spirit and urgency of what you’re saying but he leaves and goes back to what he knows best. you laugh the kind of laughter that has a residual stain about it because when it comes down to it some people will only think skin failed them down to the beloved. 
  9. and he’s looking at you telling you about love and all you can think about is you suddenly don’t know the way home. you’re fishing around for the map you swore you brought with you, that has your name and address and even an emergency kit that tells you how to put it all back together just in case and the directions to leave important things behind when you begin to believe them. you lose your voice and even your eyes in this pool of soft that is not yours. so what part of you is now left of the moon, of the thing that is just today’s ocean and tomorrow’s drought? of you, a body and a body alone. 


strolling - by a short film by cecile emeke featuring bekke

(via cecileemeke)


Since 1980, 3000 native Canadian women have been murdered/gone missing. Indigenous women are five times more likely than other women to die as a result of violence. Sixty percent of known perpetrators are white men.

Justice for all Indigenous Women! by Jessica Sabogal | Montréal


At the edge of things, mainly myself. Where now?

Anonymous:   Is there any other of convincing them-man besides using your body?

i think so, i hope so, i pray so, i’m trying for more than this now. 

Anonymous:   I read your words, your wonder, and I can't help but daydream about how we'd meet. Maybe I'd be seated at a park bench and see you running as I imagine you do - with Amy singing her saudade into your ears. Or perhaps I'd see you at the corner shop, recognise all the magic in the green in your eyes and not know what the fuck else to say but "hello, love".

these past few weeks i have felt like nobody at all. sometimes your body can be an empty presence. i keep returning to the place where the space reaches into me, nothing is enough, no movement is forward, my whole body is tired, my spirit even more so. yesterday i drank so much after not having eaten all day and was tired and dehydrated as it was and threw up for hours as my date sat on the couch in between fucking. i even cooke us up dinner that i never ate because i let the alcohol brew into me. this morning i woke up and felt this huge void up in the bed between us. for the first time in years i’ve realised i can’t do this anymore, i can’t be this anymore, i have to be better to myself. i want to be better to myself. i want to believe i can have a job that means something to me, i want to believe i am worthy even of my own lonely, that i can create things that matter, i want to know that i am ready and willing to love and be loved in return, that i am even open to it. earlier this week i was filmed for a short film series exploring queer love. the questions left me uncomfortable, perhaps the discomfort you need from time to time. it felt strange to say aloud the things we know most and least about ourselves, the things that make us feel ashamed or incomplete. i wish i could have two weeks to myself to just sit, sit and find some peace, renewal, regeneration, growth before the next phase of things start up again and i have no choice over my time. i keep getting sick every few weeks because my body is telling me ‘no’. i never knew it could be such a necessary and desperate thing, that the routine and so much of what you do be spent on meaningless things, that time is precious. i am hungry to be soft and tender these days, age and the insistence of growth can take its toll. somethings have to change when they are ready to. the rain has been singing into the sky the whole day and i have promised to listen to its song. it seems that it is both storm and surrender all at once. 

"Whenever Indian society talks of rape, the narrative of the average Indian woman who needs to be protected refers to a certain kind of woman only. Who is this woman? She is middle class, young, able-bodied, Hindu, upper caste, heterosexual, married, or marriage-able. They are not talking about Dalit women, tribal women, Christian women, Muslim women, sexual minorities - lesbian or transgendered women, differently-abled women or divorced women. They are totally excluded, because they are seen as outsiders by the social system. This is how patriarchy operates."
-Geeta Charusivam, feminist and social activist (via bhagyawati)

(Source: indizombie, via bhagyawati)

"Bodies are not left in the streets of the leafy suburbs. The bodies of dogs and cats, or squirrels and raccoons, let alone the bodies of children, are not left in the streets of the leafy suburbs. No bodies are left in the streets of the financial districts. Freeze to death on a bench in the financial districts and you are whisked away before your inconvenient body can disturb the folks in line at the Starbucks across the street. But the body of a boy can be left in the street for four hours in a place like Ferguson, Missouri, and who knows whether it was because people wanted to make a point, or because nobody gave a damn whether he was there or not. Ferguson, Missouri was a place where they left a body in the street. For four hours. And the rage rose, and the backlash built, and the cameras arrived, and so did the cops, and the thing became something beyond what it was in the first place. And, in a very real way, in the streets of Ferguson, the body was still in the street."

Charles Pierce

My thoughts are with the righteous in Staten Island today.

(via lovelyandbrown)

(Source: lolitapop09, via oculus-mundi)


Kiese laymon how to slowly kill yourself and others in America


Kiese laymon how to slowly kill yourself and others in America

"Throw yourself into it and take care of yourself when necessary. When you need to take a moment, take it. When you need to skip the day, skip it. Don’t let the white people overwhelm you. Fuck em. Make Black art. Make defiant art. Be fearless."
-advice from Camonghne that I reread almost every week. (via shiftingself)

(via oculus-mundi)

Harry Belafonte, actor and longtime activist; Phillip Agnew, director of the Dream Defenders; and Raquel Cepeda, journalist and filmmaker, in conversation with Dr. Khalil Gibran Muhammad, director of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, The New York Public Library.

I needed to watch/listen to this today, desperately so. 


While Black experiences with racism and anti-Blackness are used as analogies/metaphors and narratives to shape the experiences of non-Black people while erasing Black people’s experiences and humanity (as I discussed in White People Using Blackness and Anti-Black Racism Analogies For Their Experiences Is NOT Intersectionality), these experiences past and present are indicative of our lives, our history, our deaths. A reality. Not an anecdote to lead into something else. 

Michael Brown's execution and all of these extrajudicial executions are indicative of violence that never was truly “past” as it is always present. And it is a REALITY—not a metaphor—with a human cost in Black mental and physical health, in Black safety, in Black bodies. 

Below are the links mentioned in the tweets that I sent above: Black Women Were Lynched TooConsuming Black DeathFamily of Michael Brown, Teenager Shot to Death By Ferguson Police, Talks About His Life.

And look, I am disinterested in White supremacist sociopaths, anti-Black non-Black people of colour or unfortunately some Black people who have internalized racism and believe that the politics of respectability can protect us to now throw out the violent lie, derailment and misnomer (“Black on Black crime” is a misnomer and epistemic violence) that Black people “don’t care about intraracial crime.” This is a VIOLENT type of derailment and is dehumanization. When every race has intraracial crime yet only Black people are deemed to “not care” despite evidence to contrary and then civilian crime is juxtaposed to extrajudicial executions as modern lynchings and State violence? The false equalization is not solely epistemic violence; it is a direct attack on the mental health and well-being of Black people. Save it. (And notably, this derailment only addresses violence between cishet Black men; never a mention about any other Black people cared about or not.)

Black life is valuable in it of itself. Not solely as a trope for consumption with erasure and a demand that we feel gleeful about the erasure to prove “solidarity.” Anti-Blackness and misogynoir are not “progressive.” Michael Brown’s life MATTERED…FULL STOP.

Peace to every Black victim and family of this violence. (My own family is one of them, by the way.)

Peace to Michael Brown’s mother and his family. 

(via pyotra)

"The body shuts down when it has too much to bear; goes its own way quietly inside, waiting for a better time, leaving you numb and half alive."
-Jeanette Winterson, The Passion (via amaalsdrifting)