Dear Cephora

I still look in your direction,

Even when I know your eyes don’t linger on mine anymore.
And I get it
You don’t believe my words,
Because you’ve heard promises before that never held weight.

But from the moment I open my eyes,
To the hours I lie awake at night
You’re there.
You live in the pause between my thoughts,
In the ache behind every “what if.”
I’d stand in every line, walk every mile,
Just to know if you still care.

You once asked me to grow up,
And I didn’t then, not fully.
But I did now.
Because losing you taught me more
Than holding on to pride ever could.

And if I had one more moment just one
I wouldn’t waste it proving who I was,
I’d show you who I’ve become.

Please don’t shiver from the thought of me
Because I don’t want to haunt you.

Though, I feel like I did.

I want to heal with you.
To be your peace, your softness, your friend.
I’ll say it loud. I’ll say it clear:
I’m still waiting for you.

I know you might not even see me now,
And maybe this is my final chance.
But if there’s a crack in that wall, even a sliver of light.

Let me in. Not as the man I was.

But as someone willing to do the quiet work
To be the friend you deserve,
To be the safety I should have always been.

I’ve changed.
Not just for you but because of you.
And that’s the truth.

So if this is the part where I fall,
Then let it be with grace.
But if there’s still a corner of your heart
Where I’m not erased…
Let me start again.

Even if it’s just as your friend.
Your best friend.
The one who never should’ve forgotten how much that mattered.

Still waiting,
Still learning,
Still yours if you'll have me; 

A Softness Forged in Fire

They say steel is born in flame 

but never speak

of the silk that swaddles the burn.

Black women,

are the quiet storm,

the gentle breath between

war cries and lullabies.

For every door slammed

they opened another

with bare hands,

sometimes bleeding;

sometimes trembling,

but always holding.

A cradle in one arm,

a world on the other shoulder,

still they find a way to

hum joy into broken mornings,

wrap pain in poems,

and pour love into tea

for the tired.

Do you see her?

Not just the spine that never bends,

but the smile that softens a room

before she speaks.

The kind of grace

that dances through trauma,

carrying whole families

in the corners of her eyes.

Her strength is not the absence of tears

it’s the flood that dares to feel,

then builds anew.

She is the hymn in the hush,

the echo in the fight,

the silk and the sword, 

still exuding every bit of softness

for every ounce of her strength.

And maybe

that is the truest kind of power:

to bleed beauty into the world,

even as it forgets

who bled for it.

FYI: Thank you Black Women