Understanding your Privilege at a PWI when you are nonwhite

Behind my privilege of what is truly the white experience, I got too comfortable. Being removed from America for the last 2.5 months has only aided to the false perception of the good life, that of a little Latina from Dyckman can make it, that it's all alright. 

I never forgot my roots, that I'm legit so far below the poverty line and that affirmative action at one of the top schools did more than save me. That I am so far below the poverty line I sold cupcakes for two years at school. This is that New York City state of mind hustle. 

But I genuinely allowed myself to believe that the rest of America was like New York City. That in my privilege bubble of a private education at a PWI I was safe, that that was enough of a clap back against spiteful critics. 

My love for travel, my goal to travel the entirety of our country has been given a reality check; I will not be treated fairly because of the color of my skin or my Spanish last name. I can encounter someone willing to bring me to my death. 

And I fear for my cousins who are half Indian, because maybe some backwards person will treat them unfairly because of their last name, that when they are older they would be demonized to be "terrorists" because an Indian name to uneducated people might as well be a Muslim last name, and "by default" a terrorist. 

I fear the well being of all of my friends, as to be honest, none of them are exclusively a white American. 

I have been brain washed with a fat 72k scholarship and an acceptance to travel abroad to think that I actually mattered to the rest of the country. 

I was naive to think I had to speak up for the whites that aren't a "threat" because the ones I've known have been somewhat kind and understanding. That they too may experience sexism and poverty. However, no matter how many kind a white person will be to me, they will never be worst off than me. 

I can't believe there are people out here that are more about dollars than about chance. They won't feel my pain. 

Gyptian's song "Nobody no cry when poor people die," is true to it's most extreme extent.

I solemnly declare to stand up for all of my marginalized people. We will not be alone. We will be the eyes and ears and protectors of each other. 

Black lives matter. 

Native lives matter. 

Muslim rights matter. 

Trans rights matter. 

LGBTQ rights matter. 

Immigrant lives matter. 

First generation lives matter. 

Homeless lives matter. 

Latino rights matter. 

Women lives matters. 

Marginalized lives matter. 

Trump is not my president. 

gangs?

my whole life i heard "soo-woo" out my window

it was something i didn’t know

but it was frequent, like the crow calls

from birds perched outside my home

men pitched it high and low

so i started calling too

out my humble dyckman abode

something "birds" surely do

didn’t know what a gang was, 

but i sure knew what they do

scare, murk and kill niggas

even for a two by two

but no one taught me the difference

between family and a gang

so in my notebooks i scrachted in “ABT”

said it’s cause that’s my sister’s dad

not affiliated with ANY gangs. I'm reflecting on how i would hear soowoo so often, every man's call distinct. it began to sound like a song, something birds do on perched trees as they call after each other. i mention crows because i heard them a lot outside my window when i lived in Ellwood st.

i moved out of dyckman when i was 13, i never learned that soowoo was affiliated with a gang until much later.

"abt"= all about thayer. i didnt know it was a "gang", i just thought it was a trendy graffiti thing, so i grafittied my own notebooks because my sister's dad is from thayer, just a few blocks away from me.


if you google "abt graffiti thayer" portraits  of Abbott Handerson Thayer come up , lolololol 
google searches are so eurocentric, gtfoooo

How to Succeed in Poverty Without Really Trying (published in CONTRARIWISE)

Why would anyone choose to work and pay for an apartment, especially in larger cities like New York. You can lead a middle-class lifestyle just as easily if you’re dirt poor. You know, the kind of poor where your mattress is a bench on Central Park and your salad consists of the fallen leaves from the trees with their own special salad dressing: dog pee and dirt in place of poppy seeds, vinegar and oil.

Why do poor people struggle so much when they literally get things handed to them? Granted, they are handed to them not on a silver platter, but rather on a tray of pity and reluctance (or compassion). Poor people have the world in their hands! No, literally, they have the planet Earth in their hands as they desperately grab onto the grass.

In this piece I offer you a concise, to-the-point explanation of how to succeed in poverty without really trying, a sequel to Broadway’s How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. (Mind you, that reference eludes me, as I don’t even know what the musical is about, but the title is relevant, so let’s just be one of those people, you know, the ones who use stark references to seem like they know what they’re talking about).

hunting season

I close myself off when I need help the most. I close myself off from the ones who love and believe in me the most. I close myself off because I believe that I deserve nothing but the bare minimum. I close myself off because I do not know how to accept and receive that love, help and support. I close myself off because I've learned how to self-care and self- preserve otherwise. 

My struggles do not exist in a vacuum, but rather, are part of a larger narrative and collection of experiences. 

Being a person of color often feels similar to that voyeuristic element and participation that occurs in museums; the sense of always being on display. Of having to perform. An open field to be looked at, critiqued picked and pulled apart. Hunting season for the white gaze. 

We self- edit and self-regulate ourselves. 

Emotionally gut wrenching and visceral.  

dancing smoke

Thick smoke fills the apartment full of roaches, and I imagine it dancing. 

I spin under it as it envelops me,
and I so desperately want to become it, easily disappearing in the air. 

In the smoke I’ve made a friend, 

One who keeps me company while my mother holds her cigarette in her hands

Every time she smokes, my friend returns, 

and I trail after it...as I desperately trail after her. 

We danced together, the smoke and I. 

Gray clouds that I floated on. 

She concentrated on every inhale, every blow, 

So I started to flush them down the toilet, hoping that would bring me some attention, but it didn't work. 

My friend came back, and I said I was sorry, said my mother loved her more than her daughter’s own folly. 

The smoke took a disliking towards me, 

and the air made me choke, 

and I sucked on my pacifier, 

hoping to revoke, 

all the memories of our friendship, 

as a means to cope. 

Until my mom burned her cigarette on my arm...

Sure it was unintentional, a quick lagging in her arm 

but I grew resentful and stopped chasing after her. 

With me not after her, there was no smoke to comfort me, and I was truly alone. 

And when I became 16, I still danced alone, no father to admire how much I had grown. 

ON BEING MIXED RACE- Based on my experience in America, the DominicanRepublic and Paris.

Being mix race is a very interesting "concept," especially as a Dominican. Before NYU I identified solely as Dominican. I identified as Dominican before I even identified as mix-race and way before I had to acknowledged that being mixed race entailed being both white and black. 

It’s not that Dominicans are denying that they are black, is just that as mix race country, who has experienced quite a lot of oppression (from Spanish colonizers, to when Haiti seized control for a brief period, to the Trujillo dictatorship), we do not think of it as “white and black” the way it is thought about in America, who has a particularly distinct concept of blackness and whiteness (obviously, with Jim Crowe laws, “Sep. but equal," KKK, war on drugs etc etc etc etc). 

Being a white Dominican is not at all the same thing as being white in America, so if you told a white Dominican they are white they will just say, no I’m Dominican. If you told a black Dominican that they are black, they will just say no, I’m Dominican. It’s about ethnicity NOT about “race.” Understand this before you get heated up because America sees "race" and not ethnicity. 

la petite femme

La petite femme.

En fait, elle n’est pas petit,

Seulement dans sa peau

Elle veut être petite,

Car elle veut une homme plus grand qu’elle à venir,

à venir dans sa peau,

de vivre dans sa peau.

être une seule âme, un esprit, mais deux corps

daddy's little girl

Broken women are looking for a god 

and men are looking for broken women

He takes her, goes in,

she relunquishes herself to him. 

Virginity: masked with big, nice, round titties

Virginity: masked with big thighs, the size of cities

<<She's cumming>>

                        //She came//

She comforts herself because it's to a church she came. 

And at the end of his torso is where she kneels and prays. 

the little island descendant that could

She drowned in a blue dress

The fabric hugging every curve; every inch with every turn

It was as if she was going deep under the Caribbean sea

The waves hugging every curve; every inch with every turn

And she came up,

Her beautiful Dominican island in her hand

And she showed the world

That even people like her can

Dimple

I wanted to dive into his dimple

and drown in his soul,

until I found his heart;

my personal prize to hold. 

el hombre que prive en sol para robar mi inocencia

Quien será el, el que se esconderá detrás de cortinas para reemplazar la realidad. Detrás de cortinas el se asombrará, con la decepción del sol tratando de romper la oscuridad. El se hace el sol, se hace el dios. Y mi inocencia se llevará, y yo se la daré por que el me convencerá.  

desiertos ojos

Cuando yo miro en el espejo, no reconozco la quien veo. Es culpa de la sociedad, los que dictan qu'es feo. 

Miro en mis ojos, lo que se parece desiertos solitarios. Parecen una ruina de arena oscura, como el dolor en mi pecho que siento diario. 

Busco un hombre mayor, de forma en papa.

Yo me analizo yo misma, para que ustedes no sean capaz. 

Imagino qu'el será tan como el color de mis ojos. Una mezcla de chocolate somos. El se perderá en mis ojos desiertos, y yo en sus manos. Y mil besos me traerá, y mil desiertos en cual se hundirá.  

Mujer

Adivinas lo que se esconde en cada curva de mi cuerpo. Son secretos desde nacimiento, secretos acumulados por tiempo. La mujer es una figura, la cual debe de ser entendida. Busca conocimiento de ella, a travez de su postura. Busca conocimiento de ella en forma de travesuras.

NYC Education System

DISCLAIMER:

Let me start of by saying, before I unintentionally offend my liberal white friends (again), that when I am referring to “white people,” I am referring to those that willingly and knowingly submit to what it means to embody a white identity in America, a nation founded on the expropriation of Black slaves to build this nation, a nation that had KKK supremacists and Jim Crow laws, a nation where black people were seen as ⅗ of a person, a nation where it was illegal for a blacks and whites to get married, a nation were separate and equal meant truly just meant separate, a nation where a civil rights movement was needed in order to prove that black lives matter, a nation where when you say black lives matter, someone responds with all lives matter.

washington square park 4/19/16

The afternoon of April 19th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of an illuminescent spring day; the flowers have bloomed profusely and the grass was richly green, at least I wish I could say it was because it was like a white sheet was laid on the lawn, and this figurative semblance is to speak towards all the whites that were out catching sun rays the way light-skin niggas catch bodies these days.

reflection on people and self 4/10/16

He’s a model of sorts, but aren’t we all? Not role models, but sculpted models of humans beings; a testament to human life.

His racial ambiguity screamed beauty to me 

I no longer focused on black or white racial tensions, I just focused on him as a person, him as a being, he who is beauty and he who is surreal.

But it upset me inside the way his modeling success was warranted,

Here we have a man who’s not friends with republicans.

From humble beginnings he’s rooted, and the ideals of being humble are carved in his branches (his tattoos).

He’s not rich, but a regular man he is.

They sexualize his racial ambiguity to sell their products to rich people who probably wouldn’t be friends with him in the real world because he isn’t rich.

How funny and intimidating it must be to model for the upper class when you aren’t upper class yourself.

---

In my faded and her drunken state, I sat on the corner of the bed and she laid askewed. Her fingertips stretched out to my hair, and she lost them in the jungle of my curls. I silently wished it wasn’t my friend who ventured off here, but an older man that was just as curious as losing himself in my hair as I was in his eyes; wondering about the mysteries of men and their somewhat nurturing father ways. I hoped  a man would make my garden an extension of his estate.

---

The leaning Tower of Pisa was attacked by a group of gentle snakes that wrapped themselves around the outside columns (getting head from a curly haired girl while your fingers grab onto the nest of curls)

---

Broadway

I ran into you on Broadway one afternoon in August. You rolled your own tobacco and I fell in love with the way your hands moved and the sun highlighted the warm tones of your skin. 

I ran into you on Broadway in March, seven months later. You walked with a sort of rhythmic balance with music blasting through your headphones. I ran out the Chase bank on hoping to catch up to you.

The brief seconds before I tapped you to say hello were the most suspenseful seconds yet. But you turned and smiled, and I caught the sun reflection in that smile, the stars and galaxies expanding for miles. 

So now I walk on Broadway everyday, hoping to run into you again, hoping to be a string of metaphors that you try to piece together in your head. 

Dazzled

"I wanted you dazzled, I wanted you drunk," -Frank Bidart (Star Dust)

I wanted you with the sweet taste of champagne and the bitter taste of beer so that finally I would rid myself of my self-consciousness and wipe away my tears. You'd be too gone to realize you don't truly want me, and I'll be too gone to realize how self-deprecating my desire for you is. 

Peace of Mind

Our brain is our God, and we are the manifestations of our own imagination. 

Everyone is their own God, our worlds colliding with each other. Sometimes these collisions cause brutal catastrophes like war, genocide, and marginalization. 

Other times these collisions lead to greater things like friendship, happiness and love. 

Love Blackness

We are raised to hate each other that's why we hate the color of our skin 

And so I don't take my self and self worth seriously because of my skin 

Love me some black 

Love me so me 

Please oh dear please 

Rid me of self hate and set me free

Humaine à L'eau

There is NO reason why a mammal meant to be large is left looking sickly and malnourished. I implore onto all those out here, please please please conserve our planet. What makes you think that we are safe from experiencing nature's turn on fortune. 

We are the perpetrators of all that goes wrong in the world. We all share one home in this vast universe, yet we aimlessly and carelessly dispose of waste, use water and emit carbon fuels into the world. 

Protect our animals as you would protect yourself. Everything in this world, while it may seem large to us is small compared to everything outside of it, exists for a reason! 

Those of lesser developed countries will experience the harm of global warming first, and their land, culture, and people will be washed away if we continue the way we are. 

People are greedy. Modern man capitalizes the "weaker" and lets them fend for themselves when nature comes for them despite it not being their fault. The primitives are left to suffer and eventually we all will. Fight for the just cause. 

Humaine a l'eau. Petit modernisé, pourquoi tu me parles mal, je respect le Pygmées, donc respecte le Massaïs (@stromae)

It would be awesome if polar bears would evolve into being part aquatic, praying the universe makes it as such, there is no reason an animal should go extinct because of the modern man's greed. 

Merci por ton attention🙏🏽

Technology Meets Man

Or is technology man? Are people, and thus human errors, a result of technology errors? As in we try to perfect everything but we cannot help but screw things up. Technology is supposed to be better than the human brain, errorless, but softwares and systems fail all the time, and the verisimilitude is that these devices were in fact created by humans. Do humans that exist exist because of technology. Are we programs. Are we a software of this world. Are we the mouse cursor that is moved and told where to go, what options to click on, what route to take in life?

Black Roads and White Lines

And I wonder why the road and the pavement is paved black,?, 

means to be stepped on by cars trucks and anything that can go ram ram. 
And the perfectly placed white lines stay ever so likely to not be likely to be run over. 
And so they were only crossed literally and metaphorically ever so often, not enough for their skinned to be blamed for being black. 
And the skin was pressed on with the dirty wheels on the pavement that they were all hated until they were all black so that there was a reason to hate darkness 
be, the black is hated. 
I felt like a driver was paving my skin color because there needed to be someone that should be hated and that's why darkness is associated with hate. 

My paved dark face was a result of being hated. But I must change that and have people of my color be free

La Rubia

I looked down from the second floor of my apartment. Even through the rusted metal bars of the fire escape, her ethereal beauty was evident. She wore a brown fur coat, skin tight leggings and a V-neck deeper than the Caribbean Sea. It was as though the street lamps were all centered towards her. Her long blonde hair looked golden, her hazel eyes were a river of honey, her body was a perfect hourglass, and her smile resembled your stereotypic Latina on a Colgate commercial. I guess you could say that she was la rubia that they sang about in typical bachata songs. She stood there, eyes gazing up at me, and all the criticism about her I had endured from family members disappeared. She’s my mom nonetheless, and no matter all the wrongs she’s done to me, and how seldom I see her, it’s a bond that you can’t shake off. The warm orange street lamps casted shadows over her newly done breasts, and they were inviting of the motherly love she was trying to present by calling my name.

It's in...

It's the arc of your eyebrows 

And the fullness of your lips 

That makes me want to drown in you 

As you swim in my abyss 

Beauty In A Stranger

I fell in love with the idea of him playing his guitar while we laid askew on his bed. I’d wear one of his white T’s while he only wore  the guitar around his chest. I’d hide under his white sheets which bore the smell of him, and I, and us.

And he’d play to me and I’d sing to him and our bodies would melt into one and it would be a beautiful juxtaposition of two brown skins finding harmonious peace in each other

Only Ones Who Know

I wish to speak intricately placed words that ignite a light, and splatter a juxtaposition of colors on the canvas of your heart.

The Absurd

"I feel like people think this is weird" 

But we are just over thinking 

People are so used to having trivial conversations to pass the time, so it scares them when they hear something out the ordinary... The absurd 

Purple Hues of Disapproval

The purple hues of fist sculpted wounds 

dented her face, 

shoulders, 

stomach 

and thoughts 

as she beat herself up with her self-conscious hate 

and disapproval of herself. 

Flooded

Her confidence was only a mere projection of who she wanted to be

Because on the inside she was fighting a battle worse than the ones over seas. 

The water came in, 

and flooded her from within. 

Such that she was drowning in an abyss 

and contemplating sin. 

Her remains floated to the surface, and that's where she stood. 

An eternal portrayal of who she wanted to be, a self creation from the womb. 

Analysis:

Locked

Those locks became locked straight 

In her routine efforts to assimilate

She looked at the reflection with content:
she fostered to create an image than can be upheld by men. 

But her inside screamed of regret
and the locks screamed of reject. 

Polar Ice Caps

Polar ice caps

Of bi tendencies

That were once cold, rigid outbursts 

Of emotionally, frozen intricates 

Melted into puddles of vast warmth, eminence

Analysis:

Féministe Ou La Fermer

I used to look at feminists and think, "Wow, what a cute and trendy thing to be. I want to be one too." And I would look at the books they read and be like, "Yeah, I'm not cut out to be a feminist, all this reading is not for me." When I took classes at Columbia University in high school, I would hear women talking about their women's studies class and how empowered they felt, this that and the third. 

Now that I realize the position I hold in society as a woman of color I combat these stereotypes day by day. With everyday that passes I realize that I am a feminist and it has nothing to do with being trendy, being a woman at Columbia or reading feminist books. It's about standing up for women's right altogether and supporting women all over. 

It's not about not shaving, not wearing tampons/pads, hating the male population, and shaming other women that are not feminists. It's about regaining the control that every human has to their right to life, to emphasize that we all matter. #equalityforall 👏🏽🌸

when i first looked at my body

It was when I first look at my body and first realized the rounds of it and the sinking curves in my favorite places that I became cognizant of my body. I never stood in front of a mirror to analyze it. I didn't see the point. I already had an inclination of what my body looked like and I knew I was disappointed with it because it wasn't conventionally beautiful. I didn't usually stand there and take pictures in different angles that would compliment my figure. And then I did. And then I looked at myself in a not so flattering angle. And I saw the stretch marks on my ass. And I realized that my thighs and ass and bigness was ugly. But then I remembered that the stretch marks looked like waves, And I was riding a wave of self loathing and deprecation instead of of self love and admiration. 

Everybody meet “Princess” (ADD HOW THESE ILLNESSES BECOME CHARAVTER TRAITS AND PPL ARE NOT CARED FOR)

Everybody meet “Princess” (as I referred to her).

 Upon mocking her with my friend for singing too loud and off key, we were having a good time out of a selfish thing. At first she was aimlessly walking up and down Union Square. She stopped pacing and stood in front of us, yelling about her love for chicken and her desire to fly. When she wasn’t doing that, she was engaging in the performing arts by singing and dancing for anyone who cared enough to watch and indulge her.





Lost within the world that she had created with her black headphones plugged into her ears, Princess sang along to song choices ranged from Nicki Minaj to Lauryn Hill. The fact that she was overweight and dancing made me laugh hysterically. Watching her from a distance, I’d watch her laugh. She saw me laughing, walked up to me and laughed even harder, until she asked me to take a picture of her. Those around me just stared and laughed as I awkwardly agreed.

I encouraged her shenanigans by taking several shots of her and reciprocating her excitement by speaking back with urban vernacular to hype her up by saying, “Yas Princess, fuck it up yas, girl you perf though.”

My friend Christian thought I was stupid for taking a picture of someone from a psychiatric ward, and I just said she was crazy as hell and worth the laugh. A couple of the strangers around me were joking around with me and I was saying harsh jokes they cracked up at.

An hour or so later she yells out that she can no longer deal with the doctors and the psychiatric ward, which really shocked me because we were joking about her being from the nut house. She rambled on about how she is frustrated that she cannot lose any weight and that it will take over a year, to which she proceeded to sing and dance and talk and laugh by herself.

And it hit me what an ass hole I was and how people are all the same, because I know damn well I laugh dance and sing to myself when I’m alone. This is how Princess made herself happy with all she was dealing with, and it took too long for me to realize that people cope differently.

A message from a rude New Yorker to the rest, don’t be such assholes.

Dear You

Dear You,

You no longer hold a grip on me. I can finally say that I am now emotionally and mentally strong enough to make the conscientious effort to forget you... You are the sand of time that slipped out of existence. And it's not going to be easy, I was desperately defined by you, eager to be something you could want, crave, desire, but this stemmed from my want, crave and desire for you.

Dear You, you are no longer my muse. Years of affection towards you definitely taught me how to challenge my thinking as a writer, but now I challenge my thinking another way, a form of thought that doesn't include you. Because although you are a large part of my adolescent years, you hold no value to my future. These were thoughts of a distressed virgin in captivity, but I refuse to be a singing caged bird. I've freed myself and I'm seeking to find myself. I'll love myself more than any man ever can, and that is what will make me stronger. I won't be the Sappho to your fuck-boyness. I'll be the Muse of Dali, and I will imprint myself thoughout time and space so that I can radiate. I will reflect myself through everything that I do. I will reflect the wonders of a woman, and the mysteries of them too.

Dear You, I cannot believe that I was willing to lower my worth in order to give reason for settling for less. I am better than you, I am too good for you, but even truth seems to be hard for you to believe in. And so I write this letter, one you probably won't ever see, but if you ever do, and if it not abundantly clear, you now mean nothing to me. You'll know who you are, because I built the foundation and walls for your egotistical pyramid. Don't come crawling to me to build up your ego because these twenty-first century women are smart enough to not feed your hunger. Don't come to me because I'll be ready to break down the legacy I have lead you to believe is true. You may have a righteous name, but my name means kingdom, and I have exiled you from this world, because I've created one without you in it.

Sincerely,
Me

Dear Future Me

Dear Future Me,

You are indefinite. You are infinite. You are charged by every racing molecule in your body that drives you to be the best version of yourself that you can possibly be. Don't crop and edit yourself because you are perfect for your imperfections. But that is just a small reminder of something you should know by now.

Dear future me, don't forget the struggles you faced, the endeavors overcame, because that's what you like. That's what makes you, you. Still know your hustle. Bask in that glory as you begin to conquer things you never imagined. Continue to let everyone know that you sold cupcakes to make shit happen for yourself. You are determined. Able bodied. Versatile. Let your accomplishments remind you in any time of struggle that you are prosperous, beautiful and wonderfully made.

Dear future me, do you still base your self worth on the approval of that boy you like? You know the one that everyone praises, though he's no messiah. Remember your years of being okay without him. And when any man tries to take advantage of you, remember you don't need them to define you. You are able to complete anything you will allow yourself to be committed to.

Dear future me, don't forget about past me. You know, the one that cried in the many different rooms you lived in. The window you contemplated jumping out of, the scars that have molded onto your arm. The scars that scream I am a survivor of the war on myself. Love all versions of yourself and continue to engage in what makes you feel free.

Dear future me, any problems with friends and family are momentary, apologize or wait for an apology to come to you. It all works out in the end, you are appreciated and you are loved.

Dear future me, I love you, now remember to love me.

Sincerely,
You

Insecurities: Settling vs. Embracing

My insecurities eat me alive 

I'm tormented by the expectations of beauty and not upholding any of them. 

Sure I favor a few of my features, but how can that compare to you or him or her? 

--Ethereal portrayals of beauty. 

So I try to spice myself up and market myself in the category of "appealing to the human eye."

I got two cartilage piercings here and a nose ring there, convinced by the fact that it would get me more stares. 

Still not enough?

I'll paint myself pretty and outline my big lips. Hopefully they draw you in, make me desirable, make you want me.

Hopefully that desire to rises your plank up and casts me into your sea where woman of loneliness and despair dwell. They try to find their self-worth in you while you stab your sword into her unclaimed territory and consider it yours, one more lost virgin. 

But is that what I settle for? Sexualization? It's funny because I am still a virgin. 

So instead maybe I hope that's not how you see me. I wing my eyeliner more precise than the Pharos and captivate you in my gaze of brokenness and sorrow. You'll see the truth in my eyes, the cowardliness of my life. 

But is pity that I settle for? Am I your own personal charity case? I don't think so, because sometimes I'm stronger than that sailor man. I'm strong because I'm steadfast and ever loving of myself. Though most times I forget and let my insecurities swell.

I am constantly torn between loving myself, and shaming myself. Being strong and independent, but being dependent on your desire for me. 

So I'll wear my best jeans and hope you break your neck and admire that round Dominican ass like its art work from the MET. 

But is more sexualization what I'll settle for? I can no longer guess. It seems to me that it's easier to be seen for what you can give, the body you are willing to let be destroyed, the favors you are willing to deliver. I've yet to meet a man that can sing harmonies to me and be a sinner. To see me.