Bleeding Heart/Just What Happens

Catastrophe: An event producing a subversion of the order or system of things. 

As in when watching the series dahmer on netflix I kept hitting Pause. 

play. Pause. Pause. Pause. 

Hiccuping my breath to slur out the inevitable, 

as if to save these brown boys from becoming exactly as they ended up, 

dark meat in a white mouth, bones with which to pick his teeth. 

Not even a park, not even a flower

As in the way their families renounce their trauma packed clumsily 

into a film reel, loaded, laid out without so much as a warning. 

How their children’s hearts were jerked out of their chests 

/Off guard / And none of this is a metaphor. Just what happens 

I wonder what catastrophe would have to unleash 

itself to deworm our leaky ears 

The babes spoke and have been devoured 

And 3 decades later white men are still flushing acid on brown 

bodies in Milwaukee. And white girls on twitter complain 

that the story isn’t gory enough. And none of this is a metaphor. 

Just what happens

Next halloween I think I’ll go as myself 

because there’s never been a time the world wasn’t scared 

of a black body. Only what it can do, never what is done to it 

/On guard/ A classic

This is what it means to be lonely 

- to be delivered into the hands of your destroyer in accordance with the law. 

To holler in a room stacked with people and still hear the echo. 

Which is to say this is not the first time a white man has swallowed 

a brown body without remorse. Which is to say the very nature 

of this country has been preparing him for this moment 

I don’t even know if this is a poem, say a manifesto instead, 

I’m calling for death to the bleeding heart.

And on the last day, part of me hopes the sky will writhe with grief

And break open green in torment 

And on the last day part of me hopes 

that my God is a god of vengeance.

DEAR CRONUS

Dear Cronus,

If I should die atop this mountain, 

release my soul into the sea-

If I am seen as worthy. Father time,

I’m stuck in an endless loop.

Forgive me, but I believe my bearer will bury 

me in advance of the season of my ripest fruit

I live in a watch,

marble in a dial watching

Numbers touch my hands

Grasping for new hours

Dreading the future with you

[I knew ours]

Deep below the heart of the Earth

I roam the sands of my hourglass,

Grains graze my head.

Won’t be long before my hour passes

We don’t belong to our past,

A frozen,shackled heart embraced in your warm arms

You burn my chest

And brand the rest

I trace the pattern of my warm scars

My eyes drag 

Like the ship that rows 

Over the stream of my tears

Stopping as the bells toll

And midnight rolls.

A new day begins- 

and my fears accompany it.

Will you take the life I love to forsake?

This is a letter of sincerity,

King.

-

Depression won August.

Our ongoing battle takes up the time I do not have. The score appears irredeemable, yet I persist with the hope of something greater to come. In July, the leaves started wilting. Now in September, I’ve started falling with them. The fall is coming. 

A letter to time:

I am in the midst of life. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’ve had my own personal grey cloud for years. Wherever I go, it follows. Sometimes, it sprinkles, and sometimes it storms. I see clear skies from time to time, but recently it’s felt like a race against the weather. I think to myself, “I hope I get inside before it rains.” It always rains for the rest of the day. I come inside drenched in dread. Yet, if you were in arms reach of me, you would believe that I was as dry as a bone. No one else can see the catastrophic storm that looms over my head from day to day. And sometimes it feels like I might drown in a flood that I’ve caused with no one to save me. Then I remind myself of when I was in the eye of the hurricane. When it was only me that could save me. I survived what had felt like Katrina. 

Summer is fleeting.

There were no carnival visits in June. There were no day trips to the beach. There were no nights I can’t remember. Only a couple of day visits with my life-long friends. Solitude haunts my daily schedule. There are 4 walls in my room, and I memorized each scratch. I put up new paintings to cover up the bleakness of my space. I wish I could do the same with my mind. However, the romanticization of my implacable melancholia is a comfortable place to land when my mind decides to stop racing. 

It feels like something’s coming. Yet, I feel like I’m running in place, absorbed by suspense; I attempt not to grow anxious about it, but the thought feels concrete, “Will it all come to an end soon?” I’m trying to grow in love with myself before it’s too late. I recently typed in my notes that life has looked like a double-sided mirror. The difference is that I’m watching myself from the outside and experiencing it inside. 

Where did the time go? 

Youth is starting to feel like a faint pleasure. Joy feels fainter. My age shows as I drive past my high school, where the memories inside that building start to feel like third removed relatives. Father Time’s hand no longer holds mine and the future is uncertain. But what if that’s a good thing? My isolation felt against my will, but there’s a chance it was for my will. It’s hard to think you’re doing enough when there are 17-year-olds with apartments and LLCs. My isolation reminded me that you don’t have to “do” to grow. So, this summer, I grew. 

This poem is probably the most personal I’ve written in a while, and I was hesitant to share it, but I know it feels like a storm follows some lovers as well. So, whether it feels like it’s hurricane season, slight showers, or sunny skies, keep loving. 

published September 10, 2022

THE EASTSIDE BROKE MY HEART

I first fell in love, with crack smothered fish

off the crack infested streets of East Atlanta.

Them streets were cracked too, the road spotted with potholes.

I’m missing my dawgs,lost on a quick trip

across from QuikTrip,

I’ve seen steppers march from McAfee to Panthersville.

DOA for BOA,

Have you seen a scammer kill?

We lighting candles still,

On Candler still,

You abandoned the hood.

I thought I met my first love 

in the party room at Golden Glide.

She danced as if the world would end,

 and when the song ended, as did the world. 

She danced on him as the next began.

No art hangs on the walls at the Gallery of 

South Dekalb, my deserted morality died 

a miserable death there. A broken heart- 

redolent of cancer. Dog eat Dog World

We met at Gresham Park. 

I rendezvous with my reality

Decatur where it’s the greater good, 

the greatest hood. 

I never loved someone as I loved you

Until death do us part, from  

Moreland to Glenwood to Wesley Chapel. 

For you, I’ve shed my blood.

---

The Eastside, the land East of Atlanta that spans eight exits on Interstate 20. From Moreland  to Wesley Chapel  Many argue what defines the Eastside but  Columbia Drive, Candler Road,Panola Road, Flat Shoals, and Wesley Chapel were where I’d come to find my love for my side of town. 

My grandfather stayed on Candler, and my mother and I would visit often. I always noticed the populous amounts of people walking the sidewalks and talking to themselves in Candlerfornia. I’d soon learn that these people were what we call “crackheads” or “junkies” or “J’s” for short. They never seemed all that bad to me. They just had no place to go. On that same street was J&J Fish and Chicken, where my cousin’s and friends liked to get fried fish and fries, but everyone just calls it JJ’s . We’d walk up to the register and recite our order like a mantra,, “Yea… um, can I get a numba’ fo with a large box of fries on the side? And make sure y’all put extra crack on my fish and my fries!” I still don’t know what the crack seasoning consists of, but once I ate a fry and another and another, I realized it’s called crack.

The weekends were a lot more fun once I got a little older. I had older cousins and some friends that would take me to Golden Glide, the famous skating rink on Wesley Chapel. From 7 to 11, if you were 13-17 years old, you could have the night of your life and maybe walk out with a girlfriend. Teen Night was the night where all the kids from various schools across the pothole-filled Dekalb County would meet up to grab a dance in Golden Glide’s's party room. As Sage The Gemini blasted through the speakers, I studied the people around me on how to dance with a girl successfully. I got lost in the crowd, before a siren’s hand pulled me through the sea of horny teenagers. A girl that looked two years older than me pressed me against the wall. From my studies, I discovered you either keep up or get left behind. The dancing unfurled me until I was completely unbound and free; I felt like nobody could touch me. Then, the song switched, and she switched partners along with it. She had no idea that she taught me that nothing lasts forever that night. 

After a night of fun, we’d leave through the glass doors and be greeted by some music from across the street. QuikTrip is a gas station and rest stop for most, but on the Eastside, if you’re out on the right night, it’s a club. We’d walk through the parking lot waiting on our rides before four pops put all of our laughter to sleep. They’d grow into screams. Outside the room where I just learned that nothing will ever remain, I watched a life end just as quickly.. 

The Eastside Broke My Heart. 

I lost my first fight at Gresham Park. I stole for the first time at South Dekalb Mall. I saw my first shootout on Flat Shoals. I still got patna’s on McAfee. And Wesley Chapel will forever be my home. Thank you to Decatur. You raised a real one. 

XO.

a taste of “Through The Mud Grows The Lotus”

3 selected poems from Divya Adu’s upcoming poetry collection, Through The Mud Grows The Lotus, the 5th in her oeuvre.

“Love me” 

I want to let you love me.

I want to feel you jones inside my bones and creep into my wind pipes, 

give me your breath and bring my heart back to life. 

Find my gut and tear every butterfly up…

I’m strong until someone asks me to love them—

I sabotage my way out of everything because I’m scared to be hurt—

I’m more scared that I’ll like it and be okay with it all..

Be okay with you loving me and all my flaws

I want to let you love me.

I want to feel you running in my mind and searching for safety within the cavities of my walls.

I hope it’s sweet when my sugar falls… 

I want to let you love me…

---

“Rent is due” 

Loaned my heart to a crook, 

the payment was due and as crooks do he was broke before he hit the front door.

This home is empty and I’m thinking about evicting a body. 

I could kill him. 

I could kick him out, 

I could scream, 

I could yell,

And for what? 

Rent is due and I’ve gotta figure it out. 

Rent is due and I need to find a new way to cope.

Rent is due and I’m tired of feeling alone. 

Rent is due and they don’t care who’s home 

I gotta get up…

The answer to my problem was learning to be a crook too.

Scammed my way to a new home where the mortgage is paid

A squatter for love, 

A nomad for affection, 

In search of anything that I can call home 

Not knowing home was me all along…

---

“Summer’s over—” 

As I lie in bed and reminisce about the summer sun breaking

through the layers of my baby oil and nutmeg foundation. 

Old lovers' lips feel so sweet.

Summer lovers who only put the tip in make me wish I had more.

Summer is over. 

The heat is gone and so are they. 

They were never meant to stay,

Never meant to go all the way. 

Summer is over. 

So is the moisture between my thighs, 

The racing of my heart,

The sweat on my brow, 

And the black lace secrets I’ve pulled to the side.

How sweet Anita sounds bound to a stereo.

Summer is over…

CARBON COPY

picture this:

After years of wondering if your big sister is 

dead or alive,

homeless or housed, 

baby-less or still in custody,

she strolls into your life to hand you a message.

You anxiously get dressed 

but you sho’ you ain’t stressed.

just mildly depressed,

looking to impress the person who didn’t show 

up to your graduation.

And you looked in the crowd, waiting for her.

Another family thanksgiving without her.

Another Christmas.

Another birthday.

I chuckle to myself when I think 

about impressing a person who never cared 

to claim her share in my life.

She sits with you and asks for a drink. 

We watch the ice in her water 

become water. 

She’s a stranger. 

It’s funny when she thinks she can jump 

into yo business before yo eyes

can even blink.

“How’s mom and dad?”

“Same shit different story.”

The same arguments found their way into my nightly skincare routine. 

I mute

myself so my carbon copy 

wouldn’t hear.

Same lack of affection.

Same lying.

Same cheating. 

Same taking him back. 

Same enabling.

Same fake smile when outside comes looking in.

I raise my chin.

To see my sister’s look on her face.

She tries to conjure up the words when she realizes 

the truth of how I’ve been. 

She looks at me with certainty

and says plainly, “you’re nothing like them.”

I didn’t realize it back then 

but that was my moment of clarity.

Peace to when I graduated therapy shortly after telling my parents “You’ve traumatized me, 

friend.”

Shoutout to the carbon copies of women who reflected my mother’s self-lovelessness.

Asé to those cords that have been cut.

Peace to when I asked my mother why she stayed with him and she said it was in the name of a 

love (she never felt).

Shoutout to the carbon copies of my mother and father,

of their codependency, 

of their narcissism, 

with whom I’ve made that same love with.

Asé to knowing the difference between love and shame.

love and abuse.

Love and…

peace to when I noticed 

that the women in my family would rather become 

ill than ask for help.

Peace…

To knowing the exact measurements of my unbeloved father to father and

VOILA!

There goes my grandfather,

 there goes my grandfather’s father, 

there goes my father, there goes 

my father’s father, 

there goes my grandmother, 

there goes my auntie, there goes 

my sisters! 

Shoutout to the carbon copies they made love with, 

without knowing.

Shoutout to my mother and father’s trauma becoming mine.

Asé to heal(ing) from it 

and not being able to recognize my parents

in my love.

Asé to knowing they did the best that they could

and still holding them accountable.

Peace to when I became the carbon copy of my sister 

after my first fight with my father.

Shoutout to my sister’s foreshadowing.

Shoutout to struggling to forgive 

but trying it out anyway.

Shoutout to re-mothering myself,

Shoutout to re-fathering myself,

Shoutout to re/be-friending myself

Shoutout to redefining what it means… to be.

To love.

To leave. 

To grow.

To speak.

To act.

To feel.

To dance.

To nurture.

To create.

To break the curse.

Sister, 

I understand you when you say that it runs in the family and not in the blood.

Asé.

solo(ng)

(collage poem of thoughts & questions curated from the notes and mind of Jade Scott)

---

waterfall, baptism, emotional masochism

what if you allowed yourself to feel how you want to before you anticipate how other people will react to these feelings?

do you think that expectations are people’s innocence intertwined?

• is what you're offering not enough? how so?

????

????

I wonder how many things we leave unsaid because we are afraid that they are true. Will the absence of silence make it real or just make it seen? Does it need room to breathe?

you’re the loveliest ———> maybe that was the same thing as having a crash… deading?

WHAT IF YOU ALLOWED YOURSELF TO FEEL BEFORE HYPOTHESIZING THE MESS YOU MIGHT MAKE?

you don’t have to do anything to recieve love.

love is you. love is you.

while you want for an unplanned future

<3

while you want for an unplanned future <3

where would I be without your loooooveee? I love you, endlessly. 

Where is it that you don’t want to be? Is it here? What are you doing to escape your reality?

innocence vs. experience 

so now that ur FREE, what will you use to convince yourself that you’re trapped?

whileyouwaitforanunplannedfuturewhileyouwaitforanunplannedfuturewhileyouwaitforanunplannedfuture

WHILE YOU WAIT FOR AN UNPLANNED FUTURE

WHILE YOU WAIT FOR AN UNPLANNED FUTURE

KIND OF BLUE

KIND OF BLUE

The clock hands spun too fast, I lost myself.

I missed treasures with no map in sight,

beneath scorching sand, X marks my heart.  

You carry my spirit and spite along with it-

my beaming ultralight, ultrabright

in rays of ultraviolet. Love is ultra

violent. I hide at sea, Poseidon pierces 

me with his trident. The blow to my heart 

paints me with pain.

(Different Kinds of Blue)

Nothing’s the same. 

Trust goes away. 

serial lovers of unrequited dreams,

zircons and diamonds glitter the same

but only one breaks beneath the pressure. You 

can’t live tomorrow if you die today

chasing some head, I’m chasing my tail.

I’m why my relationships fail.

Too much love to give

And none to myself.

You dream of the burning man

(This is no festival).

I’m kind of blue,

Miles Davis’s saddest tune,

The darkest hue

Only for you,

I’ve been conditioned.

-

Miles Davis’ 1959 best-selling album, ‘Kind of Blue’ has become the soundtrack to my life. The moodiness of the album’s introduction, “So What,” is what my thoughts feel like. A melancholic undertone with calls to sporadicity, joy, and unsolved pain. The same is reflected in my poem, anode to the album that mirrors how I feel. 

There’s a crossroads in your youth that no one tells you about when you’re becoming your adult self. I feel as if I’ve watched the time pass by being someone for so many other people that I missed the opportunity to become my authentic self. Now, I must fight through the many fake faces I’ve put on throughout the years to be who I truly am. I’ve buried so many emotions in the hole that many of us carry at the bottom of our stomachs, but the thoughts attached to them seem to live with me. I know I live in the mind of those I’ve loved before as well. 

My spirit lives through the moment. I’m told I’m alluring. The ones I’ve loved the most have become victims of my private pain. So, when I’m faced with the consequences of my actions, I’m more hurt than when I met them. I’ll ask myself what better to do with myself than hide. I cloak in pity. 

The third session on the album titled “Blue in Green” carries my worries down a river. John Coltrane and Miles Davis’ solos cry the tears that I can’t bring to my eyes. Yet, it’s my fault I feel this way. I’m losing trust in myself. I become married to these ideas of false realities and cling to people who feed into my ego. I carry these people on my back, and when life relieves me of these spirits, I come to terms with an intimidating fear. 

I have to be alone. 

Sex no longer excites me. That was taken from me. I still will do anything to satisfy someone who calls themselves fancying me. Satisfaction is scarce during this time of night, though. I look in the mirror, and the eyes that look back aren’t mine. That same sand I buried over those feelings is where I left my loved ones, but you can’t leave behind love.

The outro to Kind of Blue, “Flamenco Sketches,” reminds me to appreciate the moment my spirit lives in. I am kind of blue, the darkest hue. Only in this moment, and this moment will not last forever. The darkest blue eventually evolves into the brightest pink. I am grateful for this storm, soaking in what I have to learn from these currents. I’m digging up those emotions out of that hole. This is a gem I found in the cave of my heart. I’m telling the truth more and loving easier. Being myself is something I can’t get right, which frustrates me. I’m making decisions for me now, so I’m getting closer. 

Thank you to my God, my mother, father, grandmothers, and grandfathers. Thank you to my brothers and sisters of BDY and Fastlane Records. Thank you to Najee and the entire eastside.

King.