the orangest moon

sthandwa sami
(my beloved, isiZulu)

In the early hours of this morning it was far too hot for anyone to sleep.
You told me I was strange and kissed me
sunk your teeth into my soft bottom lip twice. So hard I thought you drew blood.
I keep getting the feeling that if you look at me for long enough
you may see that I have a thousand fears
just like your mother who never really wanted you to leave
meanwhile mina I am catching up on the sleep that we missed
and waiting patiently to feel normal again.
My thoughts about you are frightening but precise.
I can see the house on the hill where we grow our own vegetables out back
and drink warm wine out of jam jars
and sing songs in the kitchen until the sun comes up
you make me feel like myself
again. Myself before I had any solid reasons to be anything else.
Last night you gave me space to dream bigger than the single bed.
You laughed in your sleep and I cried in mine
and this afternoon we might be tired because the sun is fierce today
and so much happened between midnight and now
but Bhabha you are terror and brilliance
I am the kind of woman who is already teaching my body to miss yours
without craving.
I am the type of woman who is already teaching my heart to miss yours
without failing
and I am quite sure that you will find this unnecessary
but I am already searching for a place to run to and hide when you say,

Uthando lwami. I’m ready. Are you?

You know that I would gladly drive with you to the other side of the world with only the clothes I am wearing
and the loose change
and empty peanut shells in my purse
every time you leave the room I worry
and think that perhaps I have imagined you
and maybe you have imagined me.



sthandwa sami

(my beloved, isiZulu)

Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at

(via yrsadaleyward)

(via nayyirahwaheed)

Amiri Baraka, Maya Angelou, and Toni Morrison at James Baldwin’s funeral, December (1987) 
ever ours

I will always believe in you. My prayers fall from your lips and remind me that I am on holy ground. That what our bond births is divine. That it was written long before we locked eyes or held hands or held hearts or could fathom the enchantment that lives beneath two tongues swelling with praise. I know every morning upon waking that you are the light that illuminates my path to righteousness. My spirit won’t allow me to feel anything besides your absolute audacity to shine.

Queen B(adu)

“Not everyone is okay with living like an open wound. But the thing about open wounds is that, well, you aren’t ignoring it. You’re healing; the fresh air can get to it. It’s honest. You aren’t hiding who you are. You aren’t rotting. People can give you advice on how to heal without scarring badly. But on the other hand there are some people who’ll feel uncomfortable around you. Some will even point and laugh. But we all have wounds.”  

-Warsan Shire

(Source: just-janai)

The Protagonist: Harold Green III



That one of the greatest rhyme stylists this generation can lay claim to may not even be a rapper at all defies the very nature of what we have come to expect from hip-hop’s new class. He raps, sure, but any attempt to label such proficient prose would be futile. Drenching narratives in

do you see this goddess you make of me?

the way our love glitters before the gods

like our connectivity alone can pull stars from the sky and drop them into the ocean

like pennies in heaven’s wishing wells.