Self Preservation

I menstruated womanhood every time I spoke, and he knew it.
He knew I was a revolution waiting to join with all the Condoleezza’s, Winery’s, Yi’s, and Truths and overthrow the misogynistic foundation of America.
So he tried to suppress my radiance, strip away my intellect and castrate layers and layers of Black history.
He was a man that only knew of pain and despair.
He was my captor, my friend, my lover, my husband
And I loved him.
See,
Love will make you do crazy things; even sell yourself out for hugs, kisses, sweetheart, darlin, I love you: affection.

His breath sprayed a mist of hot air on my neck, which scarred my skin cells and made me crave for more precipitation.
I woke up to his rhythmic nostril melodies and fell in sink with his hostile patterns of high notes and low notes as he composed his morning snooze music

And I loved him, III fuckin LOVED HIM. Our love was dangerous…
ly beautiful.
He sat and held me.
fed me with passion through vicious breaths that secreted a warm mist from his mouth that
lightly hit my chapped lips.
I rested in his deafening silence and swallowing grips of tenderness
he shackled me to his love.
And I would do anything for him.

At the time I did not understand Darwin’s theory on survival of the fittest.
His love introduced me to self-preservation.
His wrinkled knuckles introduced me to self-preservation.
His blasphemous language: fuck, bitch, and hoe introduced me to self-preservation.
So when the cops came, I told them that clumsiness was a disposition that followeed me into this house and inorder to rid my self of a pulsing purple finger, seducttively split lip, or booboo
I would have to leave to vicinity ASAP.
And that night I found out I loved him, but I loved myself
A  little  bit  more.