A few months ago I felt a severe & desperate urge to take leave of my surroundings, my environment being so saturated in underlying tones of sadness & complacency, I feel the spirit of such lick the tips of my toes as I slowly glide towards a concept of a future for myself.
I have not been able to sleep since because of it.
I couldn’t articulate the feeling at first, I could barely even grasp it through the rivers of my boundless energy as a result of a Mawuli I might have popped the night prior. This high is both very specific & strange, perhaps these feelings I have are just residue effects of the magic in my system, or the awakening of a calling screaming to be heard. I have been around people for too long, how difficult it has been to find the proper mode to write here.
I complain when it’s only been a day.
How bloody childish of me.
This like all things in life merely presents a challenge, I have the means to write so what other excuse must there be? I have the means to type the numbers I want into my bank account & yet I sit & dawdle, I let the magnificent images my mind has created slip through the crevices of my memory banks into spaces I can’t monetize.
& so I write, with hopes to keep writing.
Words were my very first form. My first inclination of whatever power has been bestowed upon me.
So consumed have I been in my dalliance with aesthetics that I forgot my very core, the soil that birthed these vines, my dear & beautiful words. My talent of expression, my one true love, words are the only way I can ever fully describe the longing in my soul for a love I have not yet known. For a love that might defeat me, a love that would have me basking in the warmth of ever fabled submission. I want to feel my desire in my soul, in my mind, & in my thunder.
I want all realms aligned, all manner of life sated & all comforts enjoyed.
I aspire to acquire such a life for myself, one could say I live such a life now, but I have lofty expectations of the ever mythical spirit of love. I divine an experience that would be akin to a lifelong acid trip, your being constantly bursting at the seams with satisfaction & enchantment with every facet of life itself.
Like, I said, lofty.
During my travels, having expressed no real desire to commit to anyone, the elders have taken it upon themselves to warn me of the woes of being old & alone, one word remains at the core of their foreboding;
They all say that I must compromise if I am to find “comforting” love, they all say that times will be hard, that love or feelings like it between a pair of individuals are bound to be wrought with various tremors of varied sizes & degrees, & I have listened, I have listened very well & I have understood something very clearly.
I am one of a kind.
The frustration I feel in the face of my betters downright refusing to comprehend my varied complexities to come to the very obvious conclusion that I am a veritable man eater who enjoys every bit of her appetite suffocates me with disappointment in their gross lack of vision.
The notion that an end goal should be complacency does nothing but spark a migraine. I desire this to be understood about myself, but the old ones aren’t designed for my particular brand of life. We are doing what they never could, we have access to what they never dreamed of & we have the technology to implement a million award winning ideas with devices as simple as our apple devices.
My reveries of days not yet come, of technology not yet had fills me with a passion that I might always wish to be understood. My brand in itself, my very existence is a constant translation of the message my creators wish to impart upon the world as it is now, & this passion is my verification that the love I so desire is real, that is out there & incredibly within my grasp.
So last night I willed myself out, I pushed my physical limits, as I feel I’m doing now, but too much time has been spent sleeping.
I’m tired of dreams I must wake up from.
& so I craft dreams during consciousness through scribing the points of the constellation that make up this existence. To let the stars tell this story, connected like neurons in the scheme of my grand magic.
I know this pursuit will prove fruitful, there are opportunities for me to grasp all around, I am the only one at fault for their my lack of implementation, but that story has ended & another begins.
I aspire to be as grand as I have been made to be.
I will be even more other worldly than I can possibly imagine, just as I am now.
The vibe of today is quite beautiful & poetic, a reflection of the receding sunlight gleams at me through the foliage of an intricate landscape, the light bounces off the mirror I have placed myself in front of & highlights the golden inflections of my honey brown exterior.
The minimalistic embellishment in this moment comforts & drives me forward.
I have been left alone to smoke my tar & view my aesthetic as I type as I have been graced to, these new moments of habits are enriching & riveting, there is pleasure undiscovered in the lacing of this new beginning & to put it as succinctly as possible, this shit is lit as fuck. I just pray & will that this moment lasts forever, that this fire does not leave me if I can help it.
I have given my life to something bigger than myself as I believe I was also designed to do, & the magnanimous nature of all that is untouched within me both frightens & bewitches me.
This is what it must feel like to be a man at the mercy of my eyes & all the promise they may or may not hold for whatever night has been inclined.
I entitled this chapter “Books & Boys” for the very reason that both of these hobbies are greatly indulged in on my part.
I love love.
A statement I have made that has been mocked as often as possible within the more “woke” circles of the world, but a statement that I stand by regardless.
While I play the muse to many, my affections play the muse to me. There is something so irreversibly intoxicating about a man at the mercy of my desires, about a man begging for my sun to shine on his face. I can’t help but fall a little more in love with myself when I see my reflection in the eyes of those whose desires I find impossibly inspiring.
My current sources of affection have radio waves that are muddled by the interference of expectations, I would & could say that I’d like the option to be taken to dinner & spoiled & indulged in, but I fully acknowledge that I am not particularly ready for whatever added attention that may garner us.
But then I could also say that this line of reasoning is simply subterfuge for my fear of rejection, which directly takes me back to the mention of radio waves & befuddlement as caused by interference. How could I be afraid that a man who reacts immediately to a mere prolonged glance from my person will reject whatever my desires request?
I am poisoned by doubt of myself, I am poisoned by ever striving to straddle the line between truth & delusion, why do I question my ability to asses foolishness? Have I not always maintained a true course of self reflection & care?
As these questions come as to the cause of my ailments, so will the cure to them all.
It’s so dreadfully painful to read the certainty & faith I had in my heart for my last dalliance. I speak with such conviction, with such knowing, only to be proven entirely wrong in the end. It’s amusing if anything real, it’s a sign of how frightfully ill matched I am to the concept of monogamy.
Or to the concept of him.
I keep trying to read on, trying to find artistic worth to transcribe & all I find is exasperation with myself.
All I find is exasperation with my conceit.
Exasperation laced with heartbreak.
I wasn’t particularly excited about the notion of having to transcribe these words of history in the first place, & then to actually imbibe the information & learn that those pages are filled with nothing but a stark lack of critical thinking, simply depresses me.
But I am glad that I am far away enough from that state of mind to notice the heavy lack of logic painted as wisdom in the words I scribed when in lust with an ill matched rap nigga. It’s intense how in love one can be with one’s own created illusion.
It’s crazy how much you miss the things & moments you wished for.
I lie the most to myself when it comes to men, I am now learning to be more honest & more adventurous in the connections that my creator has kept plugged in. The compilation of curator’s of my life has cancelled many shows & performances in my life’s line up.
As I have asked it to.
& so I told myself that I would compile profiles on all of the lovers I have yet to leave, to better understand my connections with these men & to better explain myself to any more connections plugged into me. I call this collection “The Lies I Tell Myself”.
This situation is almost 5 years old, quite undefinable in it’s longevity & it’s intensity. At first, mostly because of his career & his ego, I enjoyed fighting my attraction to him. Something about being the only thing a man like him can’t get so easily has always appealed to my more trifling nature. I suppose I should start from the beginning, from how we met.
It was in a hotel. It was with my friends. We were introduced, but I showed no real interest in him & he showed no real interest in me, until a moment in a club, wherein I danced & he felt immediately drawn, as they usually do. I remember the look in his eyes, the excitement, the glee. From that moment onward, whenever we were to see each other we would fall into a comfortable pit of instant passion & desire for one another, regardless of the circumstances. We were staying in the same hotel, I was being a spoiled brat, he was on vacation. During our time together he would instil a sense of longevity in little ways, such as walking me to & from my hotel room, he maintained this air of seriousness with me. An air I have never forgotten, & has never receded.
I don’t see him often, I’ve spent a good portion of the 5 years among us running away from him.
Because I could, because that’s how I am, because I saw danger where there could be joy, because perhaps a part of me knew that indulging then would have caused me to miss out on my now, a present wherein I do not feel the need to run from him any more. I’m under the impression that most of the men who spent their time pursuing me in my early youth wasted their time.
They should’ve waiting to see what God was going to do with me. & in a way, my Superstar has managed to both enjoy me at every level of my development while keeping our connection quite fresh & new. He has managed to make sure that I stay attracted to him in all of my presents.
A present wherein I am learning to embrace all the facets of my heart & all men who live inside of it.
I love him, but in my own way, as passionately & as fiercely as is comfortable for me. I don’t know exactly how he feels about me, but I know it has a lot to do with compulsion & possession. The point is I don’t need to explicitly know how he feels about me, I hear it in his songs, feel it in his touch, watch it in his eyes & smile.
I am one of his, as he is one of mine.
He kidnapped me once, the last time I saw him he reminded me, every time I see him, he tells me in plain English that he will kidnap me once more. The first time he detained me unlawfully was in Lagos, I was in his home for 3 days, fucking, smoking & slowly dying inside.
There weren’t enough mirrors in his room.
& I can’t tell you how many men I have told about him as a means of protecting myself, as a means of shielding myself from making the decision to continue on with him & it has proven itself quite foolish to think that I can physically deny him. It’s as though our ancestors meet before we do & demand that we be drawn together. Our last meeting taught me to stop denying the ultimate reality of our situation.
I learned a lot about us in the ways that he has changed & grown, I understood a connection between us that might very well exist as heavily in my future as it does in my present.
I understood that it might never end, & it might never need to be more than what it is now.
& as much as I do love my ability to dance quite cosmically to his art, my affection for him includes only a small part of his talent, it’s his temperament in handling his fame, handling his responsibilities that I find so attractive, & now when I hear him sing? I can feel him, I can feel his chest reverberate with air on my back as he sings & croons. When I hear him sing I can feel him, validating me, pouring sonnets into the well of my temple. Things have changed between us this year, or rather, things have finally cemented into a silent understanding.
That it will never end, & that it will never need to be more than what it is now.
This is a man that I had an actual relationship with, who through his own maze of insecurities broke my heart during the summer that I was diagnosed with lupus. He was a man who caught me on the eve of my own self inflicted heartbreak, he cemented our connection amidst my crocodile tears for my Superstar, he offered himself as a saviour to both my heart & my ego & I readily took him up on his offer. Our dalliance is about 4 years old.
The first time I physically met him was at the Paddington station, he wore all black, leather trousers, a leather jacket to match my combat boots, black leather shorts & leather jacket. We were a West African Sid & Nancy. As you well know, aesthetics are quite important to somebody who calls themselves an ART BITCH, he fit my type of criteria quite perfectly & quite beautifully.
He picked me up from the train station & before we went to our destination we went into a corner store in which he paid a debt he owed the cashier, who promptly told me to “Keep this one”.
Once again what keeps me coming back is something that is directed on an entirely metaphysical scale, I can almost feel him touching me in my spine, like the memory is forever stored, ready to be brought back to life like no days have passed between us.
We broke every bed we ever fucked on.
He left every kind of bruise imaginable on my body with his mouth.
He still wants to, I still want him too. He can’t make me give up the one before him just as much as the one before him can’t make me give up him. The lovers I have collected are primed for my age, for every stage of my evolution throughout the coming years, these are men I can envision myself fucking at 40, men I can see myself laughing with naked as they kiss the curves of my divine worth, men whose minds & goals interest me as much as their dicks do.
This one is of the lawyer orientation, with a spritz of fashion nigga. Meaning he understands my verbose word play & has the capacity to understand my art references. Which keeps him as interesting to me as his cheek bones do, he’s one of those ugly handsome fellows, he has a slightly harsh face with tinges of an angular feminine conceit that has always attracted me.
I’ve neglected to mention how entirely perfect his dick is. My vagina & is penis are fated to be together, we have been together in all of our lifetimes, together in all the ways that were once comfortable for us, & in all the ways that will be comfortable for us. Our desires sometimes clash, distractions remove from the bigger picture, which has always been what life changing sex we have.
He might mean something more to me one day, I feel as though if given time we can grow to understand each other that might demand a form of permanence only the pair of us could design together. But those are thoughts, thoughts accompanied of an image given to me in a dream I had of him during my lowest depth in our relationship.
An image of him blistering & burning in desire for me, his skin crackling as though he were frying alive as he sat & stared at a fixed point in time, I could smell his burning flesh, I could see his blood bubble & evaporate through the open lines in his skin. & so he sat, burning & dying, his mind only on me, his mind only on us.
I knew then that I was meant to love him, & that those moments would be heroin to him, I knew then how important we could be to each other.
& how I would always bare my neck for his fangs.
I feel slightly & very microscopically bad at the moment.
It’s about a man, 75% of the time it is always about a man.
But this is a man I just met, who quite literally “jumped my bones” as soon as he was given the tiniest opportunity to & now that we’ve had such an intense bout of sex so god damn quickly I find myself unsure of what to do from this point.
I mean what else is there to do once you already know what his sperm tastes like?
& it’s incredibly sweet mind you, it tastes like a fucking fruit smoothie, I was really overwhelmed in the moment.
His whole persona & attitude with me is quite saccharine.
But even that doesn’t pique my interest to continue, or to even text back when he sends these terribly sweet messages at the beginning & at the end of each day, he’s a proper gentleman. But not exactly because I already know what his bloody sperm tastes like!
There was no mystery, no wonder, no subtle questioning. Or maybe my instinctive attitude of apathy to this man is a way the universe is protecting me from whatever may lie underneath his amiable epidermis. I can’t put much credence into the latter because to be honest if I felt any type of danger I wouldn’t have had sex with him & I did put myself up as bait to see exactly what he would do, & maybe he was overcome with the intensity of his attraction to me & that’s why he gave up the dick in the blink of an eye.
I don’t bloody know.
I’m honestly confused, my instinct is telling me to wait for something, my logical senses are demanding that I entertain this perfect gentleman with the excessively sweet ejaculate, & a whole other feeling all together is giving me this strange sense of foreboding.
There’s something to be feared in how swiftly he was on top of me.
I can’t shake my apprehension, but this is what happens when you eat your food too quickly.
I’m rereading stories I wrote when I was 17 & heartbroken.
Because I’m 25 & a fashion of heartbroken again, & I like to compare & contrast.
& there’s a line in one of the chapters, wherein a woman is on the verge of a spiritual awakening as procured by heart break. She says that she wants to be able to know that if she could go back in time? She’d repeat every action with the same man, because the pain is necessary to her development.
I still feel that way about that man, he is & will always be special to me, to that version of me, he will always be important.
But this last round of a complete & total mistake I indulged in? I would not repeat a god damn thing, I would completely swerve this boy’s existence, our connection was like a shallow social media follow, but in actual life, I was only in it cause he was beautiful & I’ve been cursed ever since. He tells my confidant that he misses me still, & I can’t help but want to scream at any possibility of continuation, he claims he has no idea what happened between us, he claims he has no idea why we ended.
& it just disgusts me, he disgusts me.
But his body is so beautiful, there is so much potential, he was the star of my porn dreams, but now his actual personality? Forces me to render myself amnesiac. My intense dislike of him gets in the way of my fantasies & it makes it an utterly impossible situation for my vagina.
I can’t even “just fuck” because I downright loath the quality & mild nature of the sex.
Obviously there were moments, I call them screenshots, of intensities that keep the fire alive in me, but not whole feature films.
His aesthetic & his reality? Live in two completely different worlds.
& I will be honest in saying that I’m heartbroken about it, because I find myself in a situation with no actual solution. The only logical action for me was to cut him out of my actual life & keep what could’ve been alive in my imagination while fully understanding that it can never be so because we’re entirely incompatible.
Maybe, in ten years perhaps, but I honestly doubt it.
We could’ve been.
But we won’t be.
When you’re laid up in a new pair of arms much more shapely than the last, your thoughts can’t help but drift back to meals that underfed you, just like when you are experiencing the best of times, flickers of the worst pass before your senses. You need the bad to maintain and uphold the significance of the good, that is the lesson I have learned during this phase of my ever evolving life. I have learned to stop doubting my singularities, instead to embrace & protect them and to love & marvel at them.
It’s a new year, and as much as I despise starting off a post with such an obvious statement it doesn’t change the fact that it is, in fact, a new year.
That means something to me, age and time are so precious to me, because both age and time have given me the most inestimable gift, that of freedom & wisdom. It’s actually an acute fear of mine to wake up and find myself in the past. There is no decision I want to make again, there is no man I want to love again, there is nothing I want to look back on and wish could be changed, I ain’t trying to go back for shit.
Every new day is better than the last, why on earth would I want to look back?
This ain’t Sodom and Gomorrah, and I ain’t made of salt.
I am in love with every portion of myself and my future and I am pleasured to give you this view of the journey ahead.
WELCOME TO ART BITCH.
All images shot by @diQueku.