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Letters From Me to You

One soul in anguish, to another.

Please enjoy these selected thoughts of my 21st-century influenced, teenage mind.

I hope this finds you as well as it found my pen.




It’s overwhelming to think that my connection to the world results in three forms.

My expansion belongs to my phone.

My universe.

My essence.

The pit in my stomach when I’ve checked the media countless times,

Just to come up empty

Is sickening.

All to get a glimpse of you.

You know who.

The one whose face you saw the moment I said it.

The one you’re now thinking about from me mentioning your

stalker views.

Your slight obsession.

Your universe.

Your essence.

They all come in threes




You made a generation of stalkers and reap no repercussions

Yet somehow we wonder what to do when they know you.

I know you.

I am you.

Love comes in threes.

Death comes in threes.





My lifeline belongs to my phone

What to do when once again,

that pit in your stomach sets in?

Fuck Twitter.

Marry Instagram.

Kill Snapchat.



All Things Holy

I made you in reflection of me

When you became who I wanted to see

I panicked in the name of all things holy.

My family would hate you

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

They’d hate you for me

They’d hate what you made me become

They hate who I am.

“It’s you, not me.”

When I made you in my eyes

You were perfect

You are perfect.

Then disapproval and rejection came

Now I see a tarnished view of you

He’s male,

makes more than me

cis for sure,

and never questioned his identity.

“Hey family, I hate you for never letting me be.”

When under pressure I neglected you

Scrutiny became too much for me

I pussied out and ran from this,

I guess you are what you eat.

I search for you in the eyes of replacements.

The male counterparts of who you should be.

Of course in the name of all things holy,

“Please, save me.”


I Hate You For Not Hating Me, I Never Had A Choice

I hate the fact that I have no room to be resentful.

As a Black woman, society gives me no room for sorrow.

I hate that I resent white women.

Truth of the matter is,

you’ll never see what the world is to me.

You’ll never see what I see.

Two sides to every coin

Two sides to every story

Is the literal sense of life

For “we.”

And I hate,

that I hate

Resenting white women

And I hate white women for not having the decency to resent me.

Don’t adore me.

Stop worshipping me.

Because if I could have your spot in this life,

I would.

I’d take it without consent,

as if I were your husband.

Like he wishes he could

do to me.

And I hate that I can’t resent you.

Even if I tried.

You have room for


and resent

When you have options.

You grief in your anguish

with freedom.

Society leaves me no choice of sorrow


As a Black woman.