Skip to main content

Broken: A Poem


There is an angel on my mantel
My mother gave to me.
A trinket she found
In a gift card shop
One summer day.
Dressed in yellow with a halo
Sweet, chocolate face
Hair in a bun
And hands in an embrace…
Sitting “Indian style” on a bed of daisies
It reminded her of me
Until I broke her
It was an accident.
Except for the crack in her wing
She’s perfect.
But Broken.
I tried to hide it.
Move it under some things to distract it.
I tried to ignore it.
But it just glared at me
Obviously wounded.
I tried to fix her.
Using any cheap glue to mend her.
But it didn’t last.
And just like this little ceramic angel
With her broken wing.
I tried to mend the pieces of my heart
With any old glue of a guy I could find.
He didn’t work.
He wouldn’t stay.
He was just made of the wrong stuff.
I should have known that cheap substitutions just won't do.
I tried to hide my heart
With a smile and fancy things.
I tried to ignore the pain
The throbbing deep within that aches to my core.
My wing won’t mend.
I can’t fly
Due to the accident of loving too hard for far too long and to the wrong people.
I sit still, with hands folded.
Just like that angel
Bound in a prayer.
Hopeless and waiting
She’s broken
Just like me.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

2018: A Year Without Fear

I used to make these lofty, resolution goals each year. The older I got, the grander my ideas became. That is until I reached the age of 30 and my entire life shifted.

At the time, I was divorced, living totally on my own, trying to rebuild myself financially and trying to figure out my next move toward happiness. That was at the time I started this blog.... which started out as my chronicling the dating and mating of a 30 something divorcee' in the South's Largest Metropolis. I was trying to date. I was trying to establish myself financially. And I was trying to find my purpose.

So much has changed in the almost 9 years since I started this blog. I've traveled alone. I gained and lost friends. I got into a Ph.D. program. I got re-married. I lost my mother, my best friend.... not to mention my uncle, cousin, and aunt. I gained a sweet baby girl.  I went from getting my bliss.... to trying to balance that bliss with my own life..... Yet in trying to find the balance, I alw…

I Had Hope For Other Hair: Confessions in Black Motherhood

I had hoped for other hair...
(My Little One Reading a Book Before Bed)

... for my daughter.

No, I didn't want her to have "good hair"... hair that ebbed and flowed close to the weight of Whiteness. I didn't want that for her.  I didn't want her to have hair that was deemed "managable" or "a good grade". as if you can give hair letter grades or grade it on a curve.

I just wanted her to have any hair other than MY hair. She inherited my hair. And I cried.

When I found out I was having a girl, anxiety was replaced with dread. "Dear God.. I have to learn how to do hair". See, growing up, my mother was my stylist, even way into high school. So in between salon visits, she would relax or press my hair. She'd style it or comb it. And I never worried about it. I tried and tried to do my own hair... and failed. The only style I could keep up were Brandy-inspired box braids (which some poor, Senegalese woman would do for hours) or a very sho…

The Art of the Dirty Talk

I am the queen of talking dirty after dark. I mean I am GOOD at it. VERY good. So much so I dated a guy and for months..all he wanted me to do was speak nasty to him. We never has sex. Nothing. Just a bunch of dirty talk....and he was happy. (Hey..a very safe sex fetish!) Heck..I'm even considering picking up some extra income in this economy and becoming a phone sex job does NOT pay enough.

I will say there is an ART to dirty talk. You cant be shy. You cant be a prude and say things 1) you are not comfortable saying and 2) that you certainly can't back up if you are in a position to act on those things with a trust partner. 3 ) things you have no real reference point of familiarity with. Don;t say you are down for a "golden shower" if you think that has something to do with "lemonade kool-aid". DOn't pretend to have a weird accent. That would be ROLE playing..and not "talking dirty". BUT a lot of "talking dirty" is role…