Shadows

As I dream I feel the whispers of shadows creeping along my body. My phsycality rejoices at this alien concept of touch and caresses. My mind, however, looks on sadly, knowing that these shadows would shrink in the candlelight of actual memories and i possess no memories. As a result, my body's sensitivity has heightened to a painful degree, one that these shadows can even excite.

Heated Chains

Heated Chains: Part 1

I wake up again, panting, wishing for this to be over with already. Shackles of my own loneliness and lust hold me up as I listen for the inevitable footfalls on the stair, which come only when I cease to (hallucinate) again. As I attempt to unlock myself from this self-inflicted pit that I have fallen into, they finally appear. As they walk into the room, my eyes watch with anger at my weakness and embarrassment at the fact that, deep down, I wish be bound like this because I have nowhere else to go. However, each arousal blinds me for longer until the line between what I want and what I have is irrevocably blurred. I stare into the face as it comes closer and closer, kissing me until I fall again into sweet-tasting indulgence and insanity.

These dreams are always the same, my independence and believed inner-strength spat upon as the visions contain my deepest desires. Wishing to be loved for all of me, as my waist and ego are caressed. In this moment, I dont care that this isnt real because this fantasy, this unreality, is the only one that I can claim for myself. There is no guessing, no uncertainty, and no reason to not continue. My life within “reality” has left me little to give up so staying here is too easy.

Again, I fall into a non-sleep that arouses feelings that I always proclaimed that I never had and the heat takes me once more.



Part II: Heated Depths

Within the Dream State
My body is the victim of my thoughts and my thoughts are the night’s prey to my physical cravings. Each intertwine the other in a ongoing circle that keeps me trapped within caresses and chains, wondering if I’ll ever see the light of my self control again



What My Dreams Are Made Of
I dream in emotions where visuals and imagery are secondary. I’m more than just raw, I’m singular and all consuming with the power of what I feel. I wake up with the aftertaste in my mouth and heart and it takes hours to reach any sort of reality again but the heat of my fire stays with me.




Part III: Tentative Cooling

The chains that once burned so fiercely have turned cold on me. After one last effort that blazed into dissipating presence, whatever was holding me here has disappeared. Exhausted and aching I look up at the basement door. I am not sure but I think it's finally unlocked. The only question is if I attempt to escape, will I only be pulled back in. As I walk towards the door though, so far, it seems not

She saw him at the bus stop: a short story

She saw him at the bus stop, probably waiting for the same bus as her. She eyed him, assessing his black spiky hair, coal-black eyes and rounded pink lips. In all honesty, she thought, he is pretty attractive. She guessed from his laptop bag and obvious Chinese descent that he was a student from the college campus that she lived on with her family. The community that she lived in was pretty mixed but there weren’t a lot of Asian men, save for the ones who were going to the college or members of the community who were already married and rarely seen without their wives.
She glanced at him again, a little hesitant to approach. Her experiences (and the experiences of friends like her) told her that most Chinese guys were even less into black women than white guys. White guys had their fantasies of booty shaking girls while Chinese men, it seemed, just ignored the presence of any womanly essence or personal relativity encased in black skin. However, it’s not like she had anything to lose. Her batting average at a continuing acquaintance after a short-lived meeting was so low that she wasn’t too invested in feeling hurt after a more-than-likely rejection.
She moved closer to him, trying to get his slight attention since his headphones would block out anything she said and the words would fall on the ears of the people around her without any reception. Hey, she said, and waited as he took of his headphones, glancing at her.
“I like your laptop bag. Where did you get it?”
He replied with a glimmer of personal connection, “Oh, I actually got it as a gift”
There the conversation started, the easier task for her since starting things were her forte. It was continuing them, preserving them that seemed to be the problem. True to form, the conversation carried as far as the arriving bus. Still attempting to keep the conversation alive, she talked with him about her need for a laptop in her major as they got in line to pay the bus fare. Unfortunately when the fare was paid and she sat down, he nodded in her direction, passed the open seat next to her, and continued to a seat in the back of the bus.
She sighed, put on her headphones, and used the music to drown out the feedback of her latest rejection.



(Let me know what you think!!)

A Letter To Mr. Cutie At the Bus Stop

Dear Attractive Chinese-American U of C Student at the Bus Stop,
When I asked you about your laptop bag, I wasnt actually interested in where you got it. I was trying to start a conversation. and eventually flirt. better luck next time, sexy.

Love,
A Attractive Black Female Iowa State Student

Class Assignment

In a place where girls dreamed of their great white knight swooping in to save them from the perils of loserdom, lonliness, and self-confidence, I dream of someone, someone’s, somewhere different. In my battle of being black, being a woman, being someone “real” I am stuck between the worlds or my community’s expectations. I have the wonderful choices of being “some ghetto chick”, expected to flash her booty, juke, and whose self worth is worth less than her Timbs but whose inner strength and individuality is buried and silenced. I could be the uber “successful” BLACK WOMAN lawyer/ doctor whose career was life and life was measured on how you “overcame” stereotypes that weren’t made to fit anyway. And then there was the once-in-a-lifetime offer to be someone “deep”. Someone who took their experiences to mold self into a “beautiful strong young sistah” emphasis on the “tah”. I wanna be down And so with a patriarchal society’s words whispering in my ear, I set off to find “somebody”. Somebody who was the difference, the person that I wished to be.

I dreamed of a lyrical knight, no not a knight, a “brotha’”. The funny thing is he doesn’t even hafta be a brotha. Someone “down”, someone who refuses what is pushed on to him, someone who uses words, style, and sentiment to stand strong, stand proud in the face of the forces that try to detain, mutilate, and destroy. Someone who skateboards, someone who plays street soccer, or uses spoken word to release. No, all he has to be is someone who “gets it”. Who understands to some degree the pits that hold us, the files that dull us down until we forget that what made us, forget how to look beyond what is seen and heard, make us forget how to think for ourselves. At the same time he sees his light, he sees his true worth and knows that it is his expectations that matter the most. Someone who can spit, someone who can speak, whether Chinese, Spanish, Tagalong, or English. I dreamed of someone who could dance the dances. Dances that require some kind of alternate thought, skill, and touch, like the step or the bachata moderna. Hell I would’ve taken the oh-so-cool fists up and rockin back and forward step. The men who get my heart beating arent the ones who say “You had me at hello”. No, it would be “I’m really feelin you.”. bump-BUMP . Like other privileged, middle class, light-skinned, conflicted, “TRAGIC” girl-women, I fell in love with hip-hop and the ideals I created from it.