About Me

Love is often described as blind, a sentiment that captures the way it transcends superficial judgment and embraces the essence of a person. This blindness is both outrageously beautiful and challenging. I once dated a man that didn’t have soap in his bathroom and I loved him so dearly. That was detrimental if you ask me! I ended up gathering supplies for him. Soap that I prayed he used, cleaning supplies, etc. I believe he was a victim of enablement but I loved him so blindly that I didn’t understand why he was bad for me. Which leads me to… Love blindness turns those red flags pink. And for those of us with color blindness that’s GREEN…enough. In our infatuation we excuse behaviors that are embarrassing to admit. This can sometimes lead to unhealthy dynamics. I guess what I’m saying is…. open your eyes girlies and gents. OPEN. ABRIR. HIRAKU.

It is possible to strive and maintain the purity and depth of this type of “unconditional love,” while still having your emotional needs and wants met. This is where boundaries come in. Stay mindful of your needs and your boundaries. By doing this you honor yourself and your partner. I want to highlight that it is in that order. Yourself. It sounds selfish and it is, but for important reasons. Put yourself first so you can help others, kind of like what they tell you on airplanes. I promise you can foster a relationship that is both deeply loving and mutually respectful. Use wisdom to create a true space when entering the perplex world of love.

Through The Ages

With ferocity they knock on sealed passage ways

Empty screams that rattle the metal around my left atrium

Slits right through the tricuspid valve after ricocheting off the pulmonary artery

They dip their fingers in my blood and smile, a twenty-first century Julius Caesar

I am a slave to their love, because I hate through the looking glass

They colonize me, I let them, I want them to

A twenty- first Martin Carter for the dark times I see when I close my eyes

Dulce et decorum est, a twenty-first century Wilfred Owen

I am their coloring book, Van Gogh’s that stole the abstract from Picasso

Their crayons smear red, dark as Love’s stepchild’s lipstick

Dark as the blood they spill from their tattooing, their marks on me like a prisoner’s tally

Branded, as the twenty-first century Hester Prynne