quiero crecer

  August 20, 2014 at 10:18am

scruggsmagazine:

Preview: Adonis Bosso by Dana Scruggs for SCRUGGS Magazine (first issue)

(via iflovingyouwerewrong)

SOMETIMES I CANT TALK TO WHITE PEOPLE

because it is traumatizing as SHIT 

even the most “progressive” and “aware” are almost prohibitively 

blinded 

shit slips out that makes me take several steps. then they notice its “wrong” and apologize & 

its like

GODDAM. how pervasive is this shit. this whole fucking country. and the US has better race relations than MOST

w.t.f. 

  August 19, 2014 at 01:06pm

"Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.” - Khalil Gibran

I am in love with you and you and you. i shouldn’t lie to You and hide it from You and harbor a life repressed with You.

There are six Greek words for love.

I brook no shame.

I know them all.

  August 18, 2014 at 04:28pm

Life turns its pomegranate cheeks to me, “I am cyclic”

A few days ago, I parked my car downtown. 

About to pay the meter, a man in a group of homeless men got my attention. He holds four quarters between his fingers, asks me to take them.

"Come on" he gestures toward the quarters with his head, take it. 

It isn’t a demand: he is asking. He implores.

I apologize, say I can’t. I drive a large sedan at 23. I am careless with it. I drove downtown to engage in activities that wear a lux carelessness like too-tight pants. I have a Chase debit card currently worth a few hundred dollars. I couldn’t fathom taking his. A small panic took my face, (it didn’t know What to Look Like) the integrity of my vocal cords. they  didn’t know How to Be. they vacillated at my inability to fathom a poor man gifting me money. 

He insisted. One of his companions insisted. Why did I look to the only woman in the group like she had something for my lack of faith? Her eyes stuck to me, peering. She, leaning against nothing in a white shirt and her body looked like No. Not Here. 

There were about 6 or 7 people in the group, considering me. He and I.The man offering me money didn’t speak, he mumbled. Arms still outstretched while I decided how to shuffle or tuck my excess before four quarters. I couldn’t think or Know What to Think or breathe well or stop giggling and stuttering “I- I- I-” but he held my gaze, right arm out.

Four quarters looked back, every one of their ridges caught distinct in streetlight.

I took them. Put them in. Got my meter sticker, peeling, sticking and re-peeling. Looking at nothing, at swatches of pavement between nibbling fingers.

I turned full. We held each others eyes, the added weight of four quarters and my car and his companions 

and

his eyes settled rightly, un-foreign. Like immediate rapport. Like what was happening was Real and Meant. One of those moments orchestrated in the veinier corridors of the Universe, with specificity and delicacy and predestination. No body spoke, every body watched.

I asked him, because I had to. Because I owed him but his name was one more thing I wanted him to give me.I felt a smile at how long it took me to consider him. My inability to see past circumstance, our difference, to his personhood, 

"What is your name?"

"My name is Roy"

Some combustible smile, angles unknown to me, came across my face. My Somewhere head cocked to the side, 

"My father’s name was Roy." 

my body and my past colluded in open secret, 

I told him mine.

  August 18, 2014 at 02:21pm