Stop thinking about it.
Choose a page. The stack shifts and another poem comes forward.
time doesn’t equal volume. Years can pass and still leave you empty. You can give everything and be given almost nothing that holds. Longevity is not proof of love. And quiet doesn’t mean it’s peaceful. Getting bigger is easy. Growing up is something else. I can go anywhere I want— by myself. And if it gets dark, I don’t have to bring the light. I can stop. I can wait. Even though I cannot see it, I know the light is near— because I am still here. — Francy T.
It just came through me Devastating I miss How? Hold me close I keep naming it so it will be alive But it isn’t and I know that I still do — Francy T.
nectar noncommittal— it meant to stay, but forgot to decide everything else goes dull after storm the room— forgetting everyone air doesn’t argue anymore standing there as if never crowded
STARS SEE ROCKS and dark grey clouds THE SOFTEST FEATHERS to fly and to land I miss … something PITS OF CHERRIES choke me up wrapping rainbows around my teeth the warmest beautiful sunlight shining past us how can I miss a husband who isn’t a husband and doesn’t want to hold me close DROP ME at the bottom of it all FIRE AND ICE — Francy T.
This life of waiting for tomorrow was never as romantic as imagined. Tomorrow kept borrowing from today. I thought growing up meant arriving. But growing up is a haunting. Every younger version keeps knocking. Will you finally arrive? ... Shhh. She is. She’s coming home. — Francy T.
Come with something good. Beautiful. True. Or... do not come for me. Because you don't really know me. You cannot know me and treat me the way you have. No. I do not accept your version. I was there. You speak as though history is negotiable. As though repetition becomes innocence. Life is now. You chose. Every day. For years. If that was your best... I grieve for you. The gift to be your wife was mine to give. What you took from me cannot erase what I gave. You came for: my body. my Blackness. my tenderness. my trust. my sexuality. my faith. my joy. my art. my optimism. These things. Sacred. To. Me. No more. You thought I would surrender before the truth arrived. You misjudged me. Say anything you want. Facts don't change. No infidelities. No double life. No secret version of me. If I betray the truth... it costs me dearly. Lies come out. Always. Truth does not panic. Truth does not rush. It simply... remains. I am not afraid. I bet more than my life. I bet my heart. Come with something good. Beautiful. True. Or... do not come.
I built a life out of things that could travel— frames that could be lifted, tables that knew how to move, walls that never quite closed around me. Some part of me knew. Even then. There is a gold box that remembers everything. Painted once, then again, then sanded down to the truth of it, then painted into something I could finally love. It was broken in a moment that shouldn’t have happened. He said he felt horrible. Maybe he did. But I was the one fitting splinters back into place. And I did. God, I did. Because I am learning there is a difference between what I can save and what I should carry. I was strong. Just not meant to live there. Some things I will keep—not because they survived him, but because they are mine. Some things I will release—not because they are broken, but because I am no longer the woman who needed them to feel safe. But now— I am the safety. I am not rebuilding what someone else breaks. I am building what cannot be taken from me. And still be whole. Still be here. Still be me. — Francy T.
Billie: A Conversation with Lady Day
Proud Flesh — original work in development