Aspiring to be the bad assed bitch who says whatever I want. I want it always unfiltered and unapologetic. Not trying to win fans or converts, just listeners. I have the tendency to blurt out things and regret what I said. But I realize that actually what was blurted out was at the top of my brain. It wanted to come out. I can’t control how it may be perceived.

Healing by getting high on my own supply . Antidotes and potions, balms and spreads healing my head. My broken-in brain, that drain from constant, unsoothed pain. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t used to and accepted this game. This game that burns my eyes, that blurts out lies and burns inside from ugly truths.

Finishing all the food on my plate. Every grain of rice, all shreds of the meat that caked the bone. Plate licking, broth slurping, farting and belching. It was a good ass meal. The kind in some places they’d beat up, rob and steal, in desperation. In keeping it real. The pig is king and that’s why he is so disgusting. A survivor, a scavenger by any means. Deliciousness enhanced by wild , wretchedry, unfathomable gluttony. Like the slut in me imagining bukakke sessions, making out and bases, different ugly sexy faces, usually stagnant, don’t run in other races.

Off College Ave

Keep pushing baby, keep pushing hard

You gon fall real hard and bump your head

You gon be dry fucked without a sheet to bite

You gon freeze and burn up without a coat

You gon contemplate on empty days picking up trash

And putting it in your mouth

You gon know dirty train seats and bed bug cots

You gon know turning tricks and catching licks

going thru wallets and dressers and running from the law

You gon know welfare case workers, assessments and recerts

Long ass lines, not seen all day, a fight will break out and the stank

staleness of the poor air will not be smelt

The phone gon stop, laptop will be no more, there will be no doors to knock on anymore

Paddling without an arm. Ducking punches and running from shots

Following crazies and getting bent and wavy

All shitty and gravy

It’s a stagnant culture and the language is always changing

The cast is older, graying, multiplying and straying

Remembering water bugs and apartments in damp basements

Happy 100th post

I started this blog on July 16,2021. This was a big leap for me to put my words out in the world. To discuss my trauma, my transition, my sexuality, my views on race and culture, being taboo and just the myriad of ways, things and thoughts that make me so beautifully complicated and whole. I appreciate using this platform for practice and for actually getting off my chest so many things that I am often unable to discuss in real life.

Any writer knows how tough it is to really feel enough and be brave enough to share. Every writer knows about the struggle to say what you mean and mean what you say. Writing forces you to excrete the muck in your brain. To construct your inner thoughts, ramblings ,statements and make it make sense for other people. But I’ve recently felt that maybe it’s not always supposed to make sense for others. That whatever you say, is said for a reason. And that reason alone just may be to get it off your chest.

I come from people who were silenced for much of our history and in many ways , we still are. Our lives, beliefs and stories were interpreted and made palatable by and for others to dissect and – re assemble. Being a Black transwoman in America, I owe it to all those before me and all those being born , to speak my truths, to fashion my fantasies and challenge the world. You will hear me and you will respect what I said because I said it.

I hope to write 1000 more posts if I get the chance and continue to grow ,nourish and heal through telling my tales. I wish well for all my readers.

Being woman enough

A hang -up of mine that I try to work on is the persistent feeling of being inadequate as a woman. Of not having certain attributes, life-experiences or enough validation as a woman. This hang up is present the most on days when I feel low and I see a woman , most likely cis , seemingly so damn unbothered about her presentation and her acceptance in the world as a woman. It’s when crossing paths with the 5’2 petite women who happen to end up beside me or in front of me outta nowhere. I either fall back or speed up but either way I get away from her. I can’t help but feel like I will be contrasted against this woman, this unbothered, cis woman living her best life. I am more comfortable on planes by myself , doing my own strut, not feeling too tall, too black, too strong. On those moments , the prototypes are irrelevant. I too can damn my own feminine song.

It’s funny cause a few of those women have commented about my size or my legs. Some seemingly expressed admiration or wishing they were taller. I find it funny because they have no idea the struggles of being a big woman. How the dominance of ‘ women being small and tiny” makes bigger women feel inadequate and manly. They don’t know about the clothing and shoe struggles and the constant struggle to want to appear feminine enough in spite of your height and your physical strength.

Lately I been resisting. I have been rediscovering the bad assed attitude I used to have when I was younger. That attitude had at a cornerstone,” you’re a sexy bitch” and you better know it. It’s been reflecting on times when I actually appreciate and love how I look. When I appreciate looking different and loving it. I’ll never be forgettable, there will rarely be a copy of the Queen.

It’s bigger than physical. Sometimes I reflect on more liberal ideals if you will that I possess about sex and romance. The cis normative standards about sexuality that I don’t possess. The desire for freedom of expression and a taste for unquenched carnal tastes. It can be hard to reckon with that with making a man be my man and maybe marriage and kids one day. It’s hard to talk to girlfriends about being different in that respect. It feels like going against the covenant of the Good girls guide to life. It feels too risky, too careless, too male-like in origin.

Merriam- Webster defines woman as ;

Definition of woman

1aan adult female person

ba woman belonging to a particular category (as by birth, residence, membership, or occupation) —usually used in combinationcouncilwoman


3distinctively feminine nature WOMANLINESS

4: a woman who is a servant or personal attendant

I think woman means softer one. I think woman is about possessing a proximity to spirit, emotion, tenderness and attention to beauty. It is very cis patriarchy sounding, can even be read as that stereotypical 1920’s dogma that women fight against to this day. But still and all I believe for the greater majority of woman and feminine identified individuals, it is true. It is not a bad thing and it is a strength. I was too soft and too sweet to be a man. That’s one of the reasons I know that I’m a woman. Woman is connected to the earth, woman is connected to the fire, the passion, the motions that shake up and keep this life shit going. And I’m not speaking just on that superpower of giving birth but in giving life, in creating a vibrancy that specializes in emotion and beauty.

When I feel less than woman. When I feel insecure around ” normative looking” women. I need to remember that there are countless ways to be woman and none of them are wrong. Woman is one who knows herself as such. Woman is one who feels herself as such. I love being my own special woman.

Work woes

Has it always been like this or did the pandemic just change things? I envy the seemingly much more balanced work life systems that are present in Europe. These European countries seem to really care about their people with their mandated month long vacations, paid maternal and paternal leave and there always seems to be some perk or another for European workers. I may wax prophetically as an American looking in on another European progression. I can’t help but feel like they have it better.

The standard work day for full time workers is 8 hours a day. This does not include the times many Americans use for commuting. It is fair to say half of one’s day is devoted to a job. This is a lot of time when you really start to add up the math. As an American worker ,you likely spend way more time with your boss and coworkers than you do a spouse or your family. There’s something about that equation that feels wrong as hell. The fearful, insecure worker in me struggles to write this out because it is not attack on my job but the system that encourages and demands what it does from workers. It is not surprising then the failures of the American family to stay a cohesive unit, it does not surprise me all the marriages that end in breakups and divorces, it does not surprise me that we have a loneliness epidemic in this country.

That Protestant work ethic from the 1600s is fucking us up hard. It comes from a time when the whole world was a whole other world. In 2022, when we have supposedly made so many advancements in life, work has to be reconfigured. Happiness needs to be somewhere in the equation, worker security needs to be somewhere in the equation and the whole system needs to truly be dissected. It’s interesting how much talk is done about that controlling , nefarious 1% power class and yet so few avenues to dismantle its’ hold. What would it take for them to share a little more and still retain what they have ?

Burn out and dis-satisfaction is to be expected in systems that posit profits over people. These ugly systems that one must claw through just to survive are not designed with wellness in mind. It should be no wonder when we all get sick.

Fried Chicken Lover

Fried chicken feels like home

Fried hard and crispy,

a mess and twisty , the seasonings burst in my mouth

as the crunch massages my ear. My teeth come down and meet

the sweetest cooked flesh of that blessed chicken

And Im grinning and Im winning

and Im finning and im sinning , my gluttony holds no limit

for my fried chicken

Chicken take me back to coming in from down the block,

take me back to dirty hood streets full of love , with people wearing

gloves ready to knuckle up and hug and laugh and cut ass

Chicken take me back to Church and Jesus and sweet perfumes and choirs

giving the devil hell with their skills of praise

Chicken take me back to the days before Harlem was invaded, when 125th had bootleg cd’s, when taste of seafood line stretched the whole block

Chicken take me back to cold Kool-aid and freezing pepsi

between white bread doused with hot sauce and ketchup,

next to some macaroni and cheese burned edges and collard greens

and hot grease popping and delicious aroma wafting

Fried chicken take me home and never leave

Fuck ya haters and ya sugar and ya whole foods

fuck ya jokes and i hope you choke on your kale

for giving me hell about my little deliciousness

in your fight to keep upheld this fairytale land of

milk and honey

Shout out to The Chi

I love The Chi ,Lena Waithe’s showtime show. This show always has the most realistic characters and storylines that center the Black experience and nuances of life in a major metropolis for Black people. I love the wide array of different kinds of characters we get to see from smart, sensitive super teen Kevin, from try hard but still fuck up, lover of many girls Emmett, the beauty and complexity of Ms. Keisha and all the rest of these characters are mad dope. I haven’t yet traveled to Chicago but I can’t help but feel like the show just exudes a Chicago spirit; gritty, cold yet soulful and esoteric. I love that Waithe and her team doesn’t shy away from the ugliness, doesn’t hide the contradictions and yet always keeps a spin that promotes a Black positivity that isn’t corny. Like everybody doesn’t have to be like Cosby’s family to be wholesome. I love that, as of writing the Chi is sticking with an all Black cast which is so refreshing, so 90’s even. Nowadays too many shows that are about Black people seem to always have others randomly put in the story line that doesn’t add to the show at all. It starts to lose or neglect its’ base, its’ message, the optics are diluted to appease others’ gaze, to explain things that typically don’t need being explained to its’ core audience.

And I must finally give a notable mention to the inclusion these last two seasons of Black transwomen. OMG. Like there have been so, so, so few depictions of us anywhere least of all as whole, fleshed out characters and to have a storyline that centers a relationship with a Black man from the hood. Thank you Lena Waithe and team for this. The reality is that we do exist and we do have love and I daresay many of us even have presences in our communities like the two transwomen in the show have. So thanks to them for showing all that and then some.


You wasn’t no good for me but I loved you

You got the best of me and gave me scraps that

seemed monumental

Just thinking of things you said and all that you never could

Think of how the rarest “I love you’s” never made eye contact

Think of how it was always rough while I didn’t hate made me wonder

why it was never tender

Did you not see my softness, my weaknesses, how badly I wanted your

strength and your bravado to be mine

We were at our best when I ain’t have nothing

when you was only friend, the only one checking on me on the daily

with a “Peace, Queen, Goddess, Beloved, Bae” but never my name,

my name that I only heard once escape from your luscious lips

Insecurities and Pretty Politics

I am insecure. This is a statement that one is not supposed to admit. It’s a statement that is followed up by inputs from others on why this is an asinine take and why I am supposed to know that I’m the baddest bitch I can be. Whatever I am insecure about, I am told that it is something I can get over and should get over. The consensus I get from the world is that insecurity is a state that will happen but that should be actively avoided and/or worked on by attaining whatever I am insecure about.

I told someone that I don’t watch trans porn. I said that watching trans porn made me compare my body against the actresses and in that typical ” trans goddess” appearance these girls tend to have, I feel like my body ain’t shit compared to theirs. The someone I told, a man ,followed up with you can work out, you can get surgery that pulls fat and places it in the boob areas, you can become the girls you are insecure of. And honestly its a take I’ve heard a thousand times and each time it falls flatter and more insincere every time I hear it and I roll my eyes. I can love my body yet still be conscious that a body like mine will not grant me the social acceptance that other types of bodies would. I can find beauty in my shape and still be cognizant that there is an indictment that my body is wrong. I can see where these so called areas of improvement can happen while still not wanting or feeling I need to change. The problem is the pervasiveness of messaging and messengers that promote some types and castigate others. The problem is people being bamboozled to feel like certain types of woman are acceptable. The problem is too many of us being unable to resist this detritus and hating ourselves as we try to conform to our oppression.

As a Black transwoman, I am tasked with trying to be my most sexiest self. To aspire to beauty, to aspire to an image of stacked and slayed and laid, to cleave to the worse tenets of Black girl oppression in order to survive. Being sexy and passable is a priceless currency for a Black transwoman . By the set up of this country, the forces of racism, sexism, transphobia , colorism, poverty and all the other fucked up social determinants, to be pretty and to be sexy and to be that sex siren type of Black transwoman is possibly the most potent ammunition needed to stay alive. I don’t knock the girls who have all the surgeries, the implants, the weaves, the expensive clothes and bags, the jewels the whole thing. I get it. But what I do dislike is when these tools are presented as requisites to our womanhood, our transness and our humanity. What I don’t like is how in seeking so much modification, we operate often from places of deficits and feeling like we aren’t good enough. And when you buy pieces to cover up that absence of confidence, you’ll never feel good enough. Confidence built strictly off materials ain’t sustainable. The harsh reality that many of us will never admit is that we often don’t feel as good as cis women. And how could we in a society and a world that has always invalidated and massacred our existences? Transwomen will fight for our womanhood until the day we die because by the constructs of society , we aren’t ” real” women.

I am working on my insecurity problem. I was told by my therapist that part of healing is naming problems. And I am warming up to at least admit that I am insecure and that I don’t like being that way. I am great as I am and I love myself more and more everyday. I wish that I didn’t look at other women both cis and trans at times and feel like I’m not as woman or feminine as them. I wish that sometimes passing those girls with the small waists and big breasts and nice asses and small bellies that I didn’t reflect on my own small breasts and my own well fed gut lol. My existence is resistance and it’s a harder way for sure. I choose to embrace me naturally and I can still admit to sometimes being insecure.


I don’t mean to fall for Fox. I never mean to fall for any of them if I’m being transparent. These things just happen and I am just a woman after all, kill me for having a heart, for feeling tender and soft, for wanting a deeper exchange. Fox , you so slick the way you slip and slide outta my sphere. And though I haven’t seen you in months and although you’re a frequent CASPER , I can’t help but want you. Despite all the ways you showing me you don’t want me. Desperately I ask you to tell me how I can be a better girl, how I can be a hotter woman, how I get you to show up every now and then. You don’t hear me or you choose to lead me on you fucker and I am sick of you for existing and wasting my time with ya texts of ” Hey, Hey” and ” how u doing”. Do you know how I cry from ya withdrawls, from those dates planned with ya chronic absences and demanding work and ya finals and ya tests and all ya reads with no responses. You play with a girl Fox, you be knowing what you do and don’t care. You have to know and I ain’t crazy cause I don’t hit you till you hit me and in the meantime Fox I ain’t twiddling my thumbs waiting on your thick dick and your soft lips and the way you whisper in my ear. I ain’t waiting on the way your muscles hit my fat and squeeze my tits and palm my ass and grip my clit, my normally soft candy that brickens when you touch me. Nah baby mama still playing the game. And striking out usually Fox, they ain’t got ya dick and they ain’t got ya lips and they don’t send me ” HEYHEY” and ” How you doing”. And their sweet voice that ain’t accented don’t hit me the way you do Mr. Man.

I had a realization lately Fox that it ain’t me. That in fact it’s all you with my infatuation , and my need for degradation and my attention compulsive disorder and we have a problem on our hands. Neither one of us wanna look fucked up while being all the way wrong. The passion isn’t one sided but the pursuit is. And you’re locked up and I ‘m locked out and there’s tons of words that won’t ever get said. I love that you been breathing way longer than me Fox, makes me think more of you with your PHD pursuits a custom degree to go along with ya PHD , a sapiosexual nympho’s wetdream. I could cream if I COULD JUST ON THOUGHTS OF YOU. You’re hot asf and you just don’t know Fox how bad I be wanting you to just want me back. Gimme all of you , how you sweat so clean, how does it taste like water. Why are you everything and ignoring me ?

I’m a weak bitch when it comes to ya type Fox. I mistake your quiet , mysterious nature for seemingly deep when in many cases it’s hella superficial. I get smitten by your willingness to perform like a boyfriend ,touched by your obvious acting when you pretend you like kissing or hugging or cuddling. I take your good fucks as enjoyment of me as a person as a woman and not a hole. I never stop to take note that I’m asking all the questions and making all the moves and offering more and more. I don’t dispute my passion and take it as credence of the possibility for more. I violate the sanctimony of casual when I dip into being a human, the robot in me should activate when the dick hits those spots, when the moans are out my control, yelling so loud fuck the neighbors, fuck any allusion that i’m any sorta proper lady .

We at our end Fox. It been this way coming for a while now. I may soon develop enough respect to truly block ya ass for good, delete your name, make you a memory like my others. A name , eventually I’ll forget the nuances of the good sex, I’ll forget how you kiss me like you love me, how I start to love you a bit for making me feel so good. I’ll forget all those initial pangs of hope for more. I’ll forget your power to punish my panties with passion alighted and disregarded. I’ll get to a point where I’ll say fuck you Fox and by then there will be someone new.