my father is the most talented musician i know & i hate him for it.

happy father's day from a lesbian misandrist.

today has been beating my ass and if i’m honest it’s taking everything in me not to close this laptop and get back in my bed until i can stare at a wall long enough to cry.

everything just feels like i’m standing in an empty room with nothing but fantasies of what i want my life to be and realities of everything keeping me from it. every step forward feels like a pointless reminder that i have 183293893 steps to go and it’s a very strange feeling. to know i’m in the thick of what could be the biggest change of my life but still having the crippling fear that it’s all in my head and this is simply where i’ll be forever and anything else i tell myself is just pillow talk to wake me up the next morning. i’ve been sulking for weeks. trying to figure what i’m doing wrong, why i’m always forced to settle, why nothing seems to be going as planned. prayer feels pointless. faith feels distant. and then here comes today, reminding me that i don’t have a dad lol.

i’m so tired of grieving.

grieving myself, grieving the living.

who i’ve lost, some my fault, some with no explanation, no resignation.

just permanent distance.

memories haunt me more than nightmares.

i’m tired of the man i need the most only needing me for the pride in his prayers.

i’m tired of wondering if i’ll ever be seen when i know the truth is im tired of fighting to be.

deep down i know that even if only in a dream, the work it would take to get there is an effort i no longer have inside of me.

i’m tired of waiting.

waiting for the man who once saw the best in me and now only sees the worst in me now because i decided to see my best through my own eyes.

- 7/17/23

i’m not gonna hold you, i forgot father’s day was a thing until yesterday and tried to keep forgetting it until i kept seeing the happy father’s day posts and photos and brunches and jokes and all of the other reminders about the one thing that could probably send me into psychosis if i thought about it for too long. i’ve been meaning to write this piece for months but it never felt like the right time. i couldn’t quite put words to what i wanted to say because i stopped writing about dad a long time ago. i stopped crying. i stopped wondering. i just stopped. and yet, here we are again.

music was my first love. before i was a poet who hated men and loved all things art, black and queer, i was a daddy’s girl, raised in the church, who wanted to sing like my mama, play the piano like my dad and write music like fred hammond. my father was the first person i discovered my love for music with. he was the first person who made me believe i had any kind of promise as a musician. he was also the first person that showed me what a wasted gift looked like. i could dream as long as it stayed in south florida. as long as that dream didn’t take me outside of the church, i was free to follow it. and that’s where we lost touch.

i started writing poetry when my life got too complicated for a melody. when i couldn’t fantasize in stories and put a chorus to emotions i could only understand through words on paper, poetry found me in the thick of breaking and becoming. i ran to poetry when i had to learn how to hold myself and in turn, she held me back. i could be honest. i could be heartbroken. i could be ready to go. i could be exhausted. i could be excited. any shape or form, poems welcomed me with open arms. that was a love i’d never had at home.

but part of me wishes i could have found that love in music. when i look back, i realize it was taken from me before i really got a chance to receive her on my own terms. now, i don’t stand a chance. and im ok with that. but it still hurts. i hate that music can never really feel like it’s mine the way poetry does. i can never write a song without thinking about my father. i can never learn to play the piano without wishing it was him who was teaching me. i can never go to a studio session without remembering the 4am sessions with my father stacking vocals and bouncing ideas and writing bridges and melting at melodies we did on accident that just worked. i hate that my father was where i fell in love with creating first. and honestly, i have no clue what to do with that.

i’m tired of different revelations of disappointment over and over.

i’m tired of the fear of losing people.

i’m tired of feeling alone.

i’m tired of the up and downs.

the silence gets too loud.

i’m tired of falling apart in dark rooms.

i’m broken now, i’ve been broken before.

i know i can pick of the pieces and this story is one that will have a happy ending but right now the journey is at the road down memory lane and im not sure i can make it past again.

i’m tired of giving in not being an option.

i wish i didn’t have to get through it at some point because i’ve come too far to let me go again.

sometimes i miss when i could just let me move through the motions.

no feelings, no grievances, bliss.

i miss when i didn’t know i was broken.

- 7/17/23

there’s a part of me that grieves that space to create. being able to share an idea fresh out of my head and bring it to life is something i don’t have now. while the bond me and my father had over music was conditional, it was ours. and i’ll never be able to get that back. i’ll never be able to have that kind of space again. even if i do decide to write music again, it will always be a trigger for me. something in me will always be heartbroken that things weren’t different. part of me will always wish in secret that my father wasn’t who he was and the father i deserved.

so much of my life is spent wishing, wondering, wanting. trying to convince myself i’m worth fighting for. part of me knows it, most of me is tired. most of me is hanging onto a thread trying to find enough bandwidth to pull myself up. most of me wishes that the person i wanted to be wasn’t this hard to become. most of me wishes there weren’t so many layers to work through. most of me wishes i could start reaping what i feel i’ve sewn. most of me wishes i didn’t want to give up so quickly, so often. most of me is tired of being at the very beginning. most of me is tired of crying about the same prayer that i seem to be right at the point of living in before i’m told to turn around, reevaluate and start over. most of me knows something bigger, greater is carrying me through but most of me is tired of having to make a home out of four tiny walls.

my life can get so small sometimes. opportunities flee more than they come. i experience growing pains more often than i experience growth and i’m just tired. so damn tired. not because i do a lot. not because i talk a lot. not because i feel a lot. but because the weight of feeling stuck in time, frozen in what if’s, what could be, when, maybe, is fucking exhausting.

im tired.

im tired of not being able to be held.

im tired of having to hold myself.

i need to feel safe.

i want to know arms outside of my own.

i don’t have a smile to give.

i don’t see a reason to coat a long-lived truth with sugar just to watch it spoil.

i wasn’t dealt the worst cards but this hand sure does make losing easy.

i’m tired of having to pick myself back up.

yes i’m grateful but i’d be a liar if i said i didn’t wish i could find gratitude beyond the cracks of the dust.

i wish it was all easier.

it shouldn’t be this hard to feel a smile and mean it.

no one told me joy was this hard to find, let alone keep it.

i wish it was all a bit easier.

- 7/17/23

i don’t have the words to hold me today. only to put a name to whatever this feeling of nothing is. and that’s something.

happy father’s day to the girls, gays and theys who have had to raise themselves into someone they love and honor and respect in spite of the people who promised to raise, love, respect and honor us. if you need to, cuss that nigga out today, you deserve it.

til next time,

from my heart to yours.