Love comes in the morning

You heal through admitting what has hurt you and being vulnerable through that honesty.
-Some mornings I wake up to the memories gripping my eyelids open to find that you’re not here- I don’t know why bad days drag me back to you. Some days I try to fill myself with your love and I end up walking around like a silhouette of who I am. Some days I remember your hands and how for the longest time I believed hands were for feeling and not holding- I am too abundant for lust.
To think I’m still trying to pull you out of me, and they are days I’m too loyal to let go I end up spoon feeding myself with your love- those are the days I go to bed starving. I’ll admit sometimes I think you shoved your emptiness in me and that’s how you healed. I got on all fours for you and I called that stability. Somedays like last week Monday I wake up under all the words I’ve ever written to you- i wake up drowning in the love I tried to prove to you- my love is not my graveyard. I won’t kill myself to love someone. This Monday I woke up remembering I can call the words by name, and that I’m my own savior and that when love is heavy it is supposed to be an anchor not a burden. And that drowning is not romantic…
-Returning myself to myself .

Loving yourself through Adversities/ The Dock

The Dock.

Thursdays are always tough days. I was just leaving the dock and I felt all the oceans within me swell. It’s a confusing feeling you know, when your eyes are teary and you have to cross a road and the sun is blazing and people are walking by so you tense up and walk as swiftly as possible praying that no-one stops you to ask if you’re okay, or to hug you or make a joke that you’d have to drag a laugh over everything that’s not funny. Sometimes it gives me anxiety that in the middle of me laughing I might just cry- I’d rather not. When I am like this I don’t like being around people, it’s hard being on the edge fighting to pull yourself back up and when people approach with sharp optimistic edges they might push you over. Sometimes sadness can be so violent- sometimes being sad makes me violent. I’d rather not.
The more I thought about it, the more difficult it became to hold everything back. I put my tongue in between my teeth, like a wall. Trying to push back that lump, the swelling, everything. Someone greeted me but I could not speak cause my tongue was being a wall for my emotions. Sadness can be so silencing sometimes, so isolating, and so self inflicting. Any way I got to my room and drank some water- It’s fascinating, how dehydrating it is to be sad- how demanding sadness is and wants to be watered or maybe that’s my body- asking me to replenish it with something other than the saltiness forming in my throat.

I started undoing the bricks around my tongue so I can try again to learn the language of a good day.

When you meet your Beloved.

I can’t wait to be able to say I was baptized instead of drowning. I’m still learning how to swim in me, I’m still trying to figure out how not to drown others. I am still learning to be gentle with her.

Sometimes I look at her and feel absolutely nothing, I feel the heaviness of spending the rest of my life with this woman who just becomes too heavy for me sometimes. She swells when she is hurt, swells when she is in love, swells when pleasure comes- if it ever comes at all.

Why should I stay with her when the rest of her lovers often disappear, they often get lost in her abundance and accuse her of kidnapping. She has been in relationships where love came with receipts and that’s why I she indebted to herself.

Relationships are so difficult. And on some days loving myself feels like an arranged marriage that was decided for me at birth and the person I’m meant to spend my life with makes me want to run away-I think about running away from myself a lot. On most days i wake up drenched in love. Not drowned. Dripping.

I remember the first time I saw her. I mean I have looked before at her but I had never really seen her. I knew deeply in my heart that I was looking at my true love. I loved her in a way that’s so rooted the ground breaks. I loved her despite her shortcomings and flaws. I loved her scars and traumas I loved her in a way that never stuttered.

And saw it too. She looked back at me in a way that moved me deeply. Her eyes read, “Come home love, it’s safe here. It’s safe in this love. This love is a safe space for you.” I looked at her and said “I have arrived, Beloved.”

I’ll never forget that day. The day I looked at myself and knew that I had met my true love.

https://rederrty97.wordpress.com/2016/03/16/questions-for-ada/

This poem shows how compex the relationship that you have with yourself can be. It comes from Ijeoma Umebinyuo’s Questions for Ada and is an anthology of poetry that deals with self love and healing and how you do not need to compromise your self love in order to be loved. You belong deeply to yourself.

http://www.yourtango.com/2016295418/25-empowering-rupi-kaur-quotes-every-strong-woman-feminist

This is 25 poems by Rupi Kaur, author of Milk and Honey. She is a feminist and throughout the journey she takes us in her book, she shows how she survived through poetry and that learning to love yourself is a crucial part of healing.

7 Friendly Reminders.

1. You do not deserve a love that keeps you up at night wondering if you’re enough.
2. You are an ocean, you made it clear from the beginning. People will drown trying to reduce you to a stream. That’s not your problem.
3. You’re a lot. Why do you talk about yourself like you’re too much? Your hands hold you so well. Watch your language.
4. That heart. You can guard something without closing it off.
5. Independence is not loneliness. Not always.
6. Be honest. To yourself, you don’t deserve lies for comfort.
7. Waves return and so will the love you’ve been giving. You deserve it too.

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Five Days

I take 5 days to get over tragedies.
On day one: I pull out all the strings I’ve attached to you.
Feelings filled with helium. Lifted.
It’s hard to breathe in the clouds so I tie myself to the ground.
On day two: I teach my tongue new words so it stops writing your name all over my mouth. My lips tell me that saying your name came with separation anxiety.
Sometimes saying it too fast so they never have to part for too long and sometimes saying it slowly so it lasts a little longer.
On day three: I spend it trying to convince my eyes to stop searching for you in rooms I walk into. I ask them why do they become paralyzed when they find you?
Staring at you until you finally look back because you move me even in the most subtle ways.
On the fourth day: I stay in the shower until I’ve erased my skin’s memory of yours. Selective Amnesia. I forget the shower and remember your skin. Melting into each other, sculpturing, shaping masterpieces.
On the fifth day: I write my hands love letters, I tell them to stop writing to a love that won’t write back.
So i bury my feelings for you.
But at the grave site appeared the most beautiful garden I have ever seen.
So my feelings continue to grow.
Beautifully. And I will make bouquets of apologies out of them for myself.

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Weathered

My thoughts are wrapped around you
Tightly, like knots in my hair
I tried to grow out my hair
In attempts to outgrow you.
I heard you love books
Would you enter the libraries within me,
Filled with my unspoken words
And hidden scriptures of your smile.
I mean I haven’t been the same since
We twirled around like tornados joined at the tongue.
Messing up your room
Messed up your life.
Messed me up.
Messy. You are my 3am poetry.
Your skin feels like clouds.
You are cumulonimbus
I mean you walk into a room
And the atmosphere becomes unstable at your entrance.
At first glance
You indicate thunderstorms.
Flash floods of feelings.
But like every cloud.
You lift me.

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Women Like You

People like me do not crumble, we crash. Waves.
An entire ocean running to you
Mistaking your brown skin for a sandy shoreline-
My thoughts keep returning to you.
But boundaries
ocean cross shorelines
And that’s how disasters happen.
Tectonic shifts
You’re pulling apart my logic
Splitting me open
My walls are falling
And I cannot stop you
I don’t want to.
Storms in my throat
From all the things I cannot say.
You are living proof that there is beauty in destructions
Why do I keep calling this chaos passion.
I cannot stop natural disasters.
I cannot stop the way you are happening to me.
I don’t want to.

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Fantasize

Your name fills my mouth
The same way your lips did.
Days later, ripple effects of your touch still lingering.
Something so disastrous
But You want more of it
A longer volcanic eruption
You didn’t burn enough.
A longer earthquake
You want to feel tremors
A tsunami that lasts longer
Because you want to drown.
No inhibitions, these walls want to know you.
Screams your name. Practicing.
Your mind is a constellation.
I love stargazing.
There is no déjà vu for this experience. Just You.
I want proximity.
And each strand of hair to know you
As your touch my mind-me.
Pour into me. The way rain seeps into the earth-replenishing.
Lets get deep and
Explore the depths of each other.
Literally.
I see the way you look at me.
You are a landlocked country
And I have brought the Indian Ocean to your feet.
You are the Sahara desert
I am bringing the rain.
You are experiencing a famine
I am preparing a seven colours meal for you.
The beauty in not knowing.
Fantasizing. Soaking in it before it dries.
Don’t look for me in this poem
Look for yourself.

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Stretched.

Trace the lightning in my stretchmarks
and tell me how strikingly beautiful you think I am.
Trace the branches of your favourite tree
And tell me why you think growth is beautiful.
These stretchmarks form like roots on my body
Love me from my beginning.
Tell me you know why I got these marks
Tell me you know why my body had to grow beyond its limits.
Let me tell you the story of how my skin stretched to cover up the parts of me I couldn’t understand.
These marks look like every time I’ve shattered,
And I’m a woman who made pain into art.
Made in God’s image and
You can find those 39 stripes
Every time you look at a womans thigh.
They say women were made from the rib of men
And we spend our lives holding the insides of these men together while we break in half
It’s hard being a woman and we sure get punished for it.
But my God! It’s so glorious.
See these are battle scars
And sometimes the war is within me
I used to hate the way these marks broke the smoothness of my complexion.
My life has been Rough. Rigid. Reckless.
And these marks tell my story beautifully.
But I touch my skin like I’m learning braille
These marks read;
“Baby girl your body burns like the sun and these marks are horizons of your soul stretched out to meet anyone willing to follow your light and meet the God within you.
Anyone who touches you will be entering holy grounds.
-Lethica Nair.

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Indian.

“That’s so Indian”
A statement that shaped my life. People who said this to me often used it as an insult- a way of telling me “be lesser of who you are” and when “friends” would introduce me they’d be on some “This is Lethica, she not a typical Indian don’t worry, she’s cool” I had lost my Indian identity before I even knew what it was. It made people comfortable to make remarks reducing my 500 million year old culture to spice jokes and that 2c accent that no South African Indian has. Why couldn’t I be Indian and cool? Why was my culture seen as a joke rather than something beautiful filled with rich tradition? I never had what was called the “typical Indian accent” and often had to fake laugh through conversations where that 2c accent was used to make a joke meanwhile in my head I knew that when Indian people speak their mother tongue languages the accents are perfect. As people of colour we use the way english is spoken to degrade each other- sometimes more than white people. Peers were baffled how i could be indian and not be good at math. I didn’t know what being a typical Indian meant. At home i was different because I was way more open-minded than my conservative culture allowed- I am queer, a feminist in a culture rooted in patriarchy, black lives matter activist but amongst my friends i was different because I didn’t have the accent, I could understand other South African languages, I dated outside my race and suddenly I was introduced as “this is Lethica, lol she’s not Indian” why was it so hard for people to accept that I could be Indian and all the things that i am at the same time? Why was it so hard to accept that I could be more than the spice jokes and Indian accent and still be Indian. I used to join along with my friends mocking Indians, entertain my history teacher who thought it funny to make an indian joke and look at me for agreement and gratification. Colourism- “I’d date a light Indian but not those navy blue ones” Dark is beautiful only if it’s black there’s no space for darkskin coloureds and Indians, we’re just not “exotic” enough- after all we’re still waiting for our apologies from the white people. I digress. Shame on me for thinking things like “Tisha you smell so nice, not like spice.” are compliments. It’s feels the same way when Americans come expecting lions on the streets only to be disappointed by the roads and skyscrapers. These are the consequences of only one truth about culture, about people and when they’re not who you thought they’d be- instead of accepting them, you label them differently.
-An immigrant in her own country.

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She tastes like a different continent.  20 years and still “foreign”