You were a poem to me.
I loved the similes and metaphors that rushed though my head, before and during the time you temporarily belonged to me.
There is something about partying on a Sunday night….
There is something thoughtlessly appealing about partying on a Sunday night that subtly evokes a spirit of rebellion in an individual. A carpe diem spirit. A “Y.O.L.O” (You Only Live Once) kind of attitude.
There is something about partying on a Sunday night that gives the rich black kids of the North another reason to feel deceivably invincible and to display dangerously indulgent and conspicuous behaviour.
It is 05:15- Sway Sandton Nightclub is about to shut down the party which celebrated the first anniversary of its weekly Sunday clubbing sessions. The ‘All Lovely Sundays’- colloquially known as ALS- has grown to be one of the most popular parties in Northern Johannesburg, by virtue of the fact that it affords one the ability to twerk and spend flatulently on a Sunday night as though it were a Friday. In fact, the magnitude…
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I) The amount of words it took for me to fall in love.
II) These are the times I gave you my heart as a second chance to make sure you break it right.
III) Three words I grew so fond of, being that I had never heard them before.
IV) This is what your aftershocks rate by on the Richter scale, still able to bring cities to ruin.
V) Five, five times I thought I was lucky enough that you’d actually call me yours and mean it.
VI) I always wished the waves would crash at our feet one night.
VII) This was the age I started dreaming of a girl like you, seven. It’s just a myth now.
VIII) Eight times, also the age that I saw your reflection in small pools of water between rocks on the beach.
IX) Nine, the age I learned I could throw my heart at someone as a grenade and leave them amputated.
X) By ten, I stopped believing in love and started believing that no matter how long you wait, nothing good ever comes.
By Jake Muir
20 June 2014
twitter – @pieniiune
I am not your fucking fetish.
My fellow sisters, of color are NOT your fucking fetish too.
We are Not sex objects who exist only to fulfill your sexual fantasies or your experimental porn.
I don’t accept “Yellow Fever”, “Jungle fever” or any kind of fevers you associate us woman of color with.
If you were taught that people of color are supposed to be inherently unattractive and undesirable; then maybe you’re the one with the “fever”, in fact you’re really sick with a really bad case of racisim.
Stop dehumanizing us!
We’re not here for your fucking pity party.
We’re capable and intellectual woman.
– In Reference To Your Sickness
“He invites me over for dinner by candle, in place that is his comfort zone. Little, did I know, I was the one that was gonna be devoured on that dinner table. Even with the candles lighting up the room, I had never been in soo much darkness. He ate me up that night and that ate me up inside. No remorse, told me to fuck off. Most important part of me, left on that table.”
– So much for Mr Romantic
“Bumped into a guy I had a crush on. He kept eyeing me. He soon complimented me on the way I looked. Later that night, he invites My girls and I to his place. He was hosting an after party with friends. Said he’d love if I came through. Walked through at the beginning of my favourite song, it’s barely halfway through and his hands have fully explored my inner. He did things Unknown to me. I had never anticipated what happened that night. Whenever I googled “how to sex”. None of these things came up.”
– Disappointed by crush
“Shhh… he says to me, as he creeps his impurities into my bed. Quietly pulls my pyjamas off, covering my mouth whilst he holds me. He tells me to play with lil johnny, while he pulls on my hair, he tells me to treat it like a lolly. I give him a blank stare. He doesn’t even pull my pants back up. before he opens the door, he tells me to not tell anybody, or else he’ll tell mommy I broke her favorite vase”
-Uncle Wont Stop Touching Me