chapter un-numbered, unfinished

[march.14.2008.6:10am]

"to have a craving, appetite or great desire for."
-poetry.com


it weighed heavy on my mind, brought me physical discomfort. it was the cause to my fidgeting; the double shots of expressos I drank didn't ease my agitation.

attention flocked to it by the masses. those who I rarely spoke to soon found themselves finding meaningless lures to engage in conversation with me. I took their bait. gave them the chance to remind me once more of the reality I've foolishly mistaken for as pure fantasy. co-workers from other departments somehow made her or his way to the floor I worked on. they'd pass me by looking at the papers hidden in their manila folders, pretending to be reading so intently, reading as if the truth they wrote for me was written on the surface.

the stares from the drama thirsty hyenas I worked with and the silent disapproval of the lions I worked for burned the white hot existence of the mistakes I made which resulted in me feeling like a wounded gazelle. my fall from grace had spilled into my professional life and this is when I recognized that lust had me in a chokehold.

I made my runs to the copy machine and I didn't have to force the urgency; my Starbucks intake was more than my usual so I displayed more than a little pep in my step. good thing I was known for my efficientcy at work so the extra speed I displayed in my gait seemed as if I was concerned with the productivity of the company.

I whisked by my acquaintance Olivia's office. she was a woman whom I had grown secure enough with to engage in dialouge that consisted of more than what was bred in our workplace. her door was open and as I rounded the corner, my peripheral vision found her filing her nails as she always did, waiting for me to come by. I had no intentions on stopping to lend her my company; the fact that I mistook her keen ear for safety two years ago allowed me to realize one of my very first mistakes made on my laundry list I had full of them.

my feet pounded on the office's thin carpeting and the soles of my flats began to level with the floor. I soon reached the office door that belonged to me, I opened it and returned the heavy slab of hardwood into the framework of the doorway.

the leather seat embraced my five foot eight frame, molded me in its welcoming comfort. the cool sensation of cold leather never failed to soothe me until now. the chair I adored so much neglected to fondle the skin of the back of my knees. I exhaled as I remembered this chair was a gift from him.

thinking of him, reminding myself of his existence, brought me to relive sins stained on the surface of my desk as well as the sins that lived in the very leather of this seat, sins that were birthed even before the chair was ingeniously moved to live in my office. hell, I couldn't bring it home. it would've struck out as a sign. a large, black, leather sign; a breadcrumb in the trail to my gingerbread house.

it was a gift I told myself; the truth then told me that it was more accurately described as a trophy.

my mind was doing sprints, hurdles and long jumps as I began to watch the sleek phone that rested on the corner of my desk.

I needed to dial.

what would I say? would the expresso betray me into speeding up my confessions, the many I sleep with while next to him?

I didn't trust myself at that moment to be sharp, cunning, sly to lightly converse undetected while I prodded for any signs of new intelligence he might've gained. I still wanted to be predator yet I succumbed to be prey simultaneously; subjected myself to be prey to a wolf dressed in designer wolves clothing.

still, I needed to dial.

my gaze became glossed over and absentmindedly, my index finger and thumb looped around my source of stress, the well of my anxiety and the burden I reluctantly wore. I wanted to melt my fallacious being into the fiber of the seat. closing my eyes proved calming as I sat simulating my demise of lies, hearing myself admit actions that only are kept preserved in the darkness in which they were committed to being brought to manifest.

the shriek of the phone's ringing brought my chest muscles to tighten and my heart rate sped. instantly, my arm pits watered. regretfully, my vagina tingled. I outstretched my arm to lift the phone out of its cradle.

the shrieking stopped.

the grip I held to the phone was loose; I left slack to drop it from my ear if need be. I didn't greet the caller with salutations, nor did I ask who was on the other end. I didn't have to. the silence seeping through the speaker told me the identity of the dialer. the low undertones of his accented softspoken voice swarm into my eardrum and ensnared my weakness for the silk they spun.

I remained still, inhaling and exhaling controlled breaths. he'd have to begin before I could speak. having to force myself to talk with him strictly professionally over the phone was now very afflicting for this is how I failed to not fall in love with him.


this has been an excerpt from my genious.
Copyright © 2008 Char'Nae James

miss serpentine

[march.13.2008.8:08pm]

"...the Serpent is chillingly lucid."
suzanne white


she effortlessly lies to fuel my fantasy; she silently slithers alongside my insecurities. she coils around secretcy to bring me comfort; she strikes to lay venemous kisses on my lips. my love for her is the field in which her underbelly glosses over; she never roots in my long blades of grass to lay her eggs. she's cold in her core and callused with scales. my fervent infatuation with her brings my blood to a boil; she melts all had will power to mute my ears to her hiss.

I love her yet she doesn't love me. not in the way I want her to, in the way I need her to. she isn't attached to me, but I'm rooted in her. the trance she seduces me into allows me to believe she's one hundred percent:
one hundred percent faithful.
one hundred percent truthful.
one hundred percent loyal.
one hundred percent interested.
one hundred percent my own,
but my heartache tells me I don't have her entirely, yet when she's in my grasp, I'm convinced heartache has told me lies.

I know the liar is the one who I've allowed to spiral around my senses, constricting my consciousness, poisoning my philosophy.

she suffers from her undying lust for the chase; she victimizes herself through stalking and seducing her unexpecting victims. she swallows men whole as she has swallowed me. ironic how she never savors the flavor of hearts long enough to taste them.

I suppose she couldn't help the alignments the celestial skies were in on the day she was born; she can't help this no more than I can help to love her.

miss serpentine she is.


this has been an exerpt from my genius.
Copyright © 2008 Char'Nae James

girls and dolls

[march.12.2008.5:53pm]

"welcome to the dollhouse"
-danity kane


dolls were made, in my opinion, as tangible objects for the young developing mind[s] of the female gender to conform to her role in society.

you know, the role of domestication; rubbish if you ask me. rubbish due to part of my feminism and part common sense.

but,
I remember my first doll...

I was eight. she was a "Kenya" doll. I doubt was even made in the country of Kenya, but I loved her. she was equipped with the faux kente cloth. the long and thick synthetic hair; she had brown skin like mine and the cutest golden slippers were painted onto her feet.

I can't recall naming her; at the time, I wasn't clever enough to select a suiting name. she was a gift of some sort from my aunt geneva and I cared for her. my sister who is three years my senior had one as well. her "kenya" doll was light skinned like she was and everything of the sort.

my sister and I were bathing partners. bathing together proved to be less time consuming for my aunt and the fun factor was doubled. we'd both bring our "kenya" dolls to bathtime yet at the time, I didn't understand that her functionability was limited: she wasn't suited for water activities.

when I dunked her under water, her eye lashes would be seen floating in the water here and there
and gradually, she'd have less and less lashes. her kente cloth wasn't removable so I'd have to do some major towel drying to soak the water out of her get up. the most tedious consequence for putting her in the tub [and even washing her up with soap most times] was having to deal with her thick hair that took more days than one to dry [until I got smooth and began to sneak my aunt's blowdryer to dry her weave out].

most of my memorable good times began with her. she guided my juvenile belief in female domestication blah blah blah.

she slept with me and swung by my side for I always held her hand: for our security. I consulted with her about what cereal to eat for breakfast, trusted her judgement about whether or not allowing my female cousins to play with her was a good idea or not and respected her taste in "men" very highly and regarded her morals when she and I decided that she "needed" a Ken doll in her life.

and this transitions me into my message at hand:

women who can relate to this relationship that's made between girl and doll know the strength of the connection she individually had with her physical manifestation of her pure conscious.

these dolls, these miniature representations of women distorted to appear as mature-looking life-like infants and most times toddler-sized daughters were an extention of our girlhood in its purest existence. this is applicable to the girl who had that cabbage patch kid, or that feminine carebear, or baby tumbling surprise, the "kenya" doll, the female teddy bear or even that emaciated stick figure barbie and her friends.

when did we lose sight of the doll in us all?? that innocent yet youthfully honest inner being of self?? did we not feel secure with our first experience of trusting ourselves??

when we stopped consulting with her about something as simple as which cereal to devour, we slipped and lost sight of how we need to lean on her judgement to guide us in choosing not perfect mates, but those that weren't "settle deeds", you know, those men children we settled for, the ones we subjected our inner dolls to be played with like the lastest new hotwheel model, only to be traded with the low value of a few pokémon cards...

let's close our hands around her small hand and clamp tight to the future of our emotional sanity; let's respect her judgement when it comes to who "plays" with her and most importantly, let's recognize that we women have options yet, we don't have to exercise any and all options; we have the power to choose yet, we have the ability to be chosen.

so unless you've never had a doll, or yours is one of chucky's brides, let's travel back to our girlhood, let's reach into the rooms of the dollhouse to rescue, nurture and protect our dolls.

the rare narrative:

[march.6.2008.6:47pm]


i'm being loved while in love with a man who to live without would be pain i doubt i'm strong enough to endure and rarely do i ill-measure my strength.

he and i struggle to love one another. in the manner in which i express my feelings for him, the words i choose to convey how he feels about me, one would be misled to believe that love between he and i remains smooth peaches and cream.

yet it's anything but...

through all the lies spun from my tongue that i become selfish and childish enough to give him as truth, he continually offers me the chance to confront my demons. he and i see the truth as it is through the same pair of eyes; he loves me to the ultimate level to check me when i'm too much of a coward to do so myself.

Michael feeds my soul, nurtures my body and stimulates my psyche. he loves me in my entirety in quantities i can't fathom to comprehend. as i've always sought to be loved, regarded, cherished, he does so. he acknowledges my strength and holds me at his highest respect; in the same company of the two other great people that matter to him most: his father and son.

there's no doubt in my mind that he is my one and that i'm his forever. this relationship hasn't been soon come found. i've loved him since I was fifteen, since the day i told him during a time i recall as the Dark Ages. he's truly my hero. he saved me from an emotional death i was suffering from and little did i know then, i did the same for him simultaneously.

i need him. i honestly know that i do. he isn't disposable; he's a necessity. life for me without him would be a shell with no pearl hidden inside to shine.
don't mistake this for me being a needy woman lustfully attracted to a dog who doesn't deserve her efforts, time and emotional validation...

he's earned every ounce of myself i wake up each day to present to him.

yet, he drives me in-fucking-sane!

were so alike that it's dangerous for us to be on the outs with one another.

he's such an asshole. demanding. cynical. cautious. observant. watchful. passionate. protective. egotistical. insensitive. aloof. thoughtful. pragmatic. wise. wise. very wise. combative. pushy. needy. strong. incredibly strong. loving. loyal. curious.

he sometimes acts as if he's gone through life for me for he's always there to correct my wrongs before i step out of rationality to make them. he pushes me to my limit and yet when he does, i set that bar much higher, just for him.

ironically, we balance one another out.

[i use ironically because were the saaame sign: aquarius. birthdays are fourteen years and a week apart...smh]

in his heart's mind, no one could ever love him for who he is when he's not being charming, humorous, lovable, smooth, well-versed; then i came into his life.

i know for a fact he's the best shit on earth since take-home pregnancy tests.

loving him allows me to realize how God continues loves us faulty human beings unconditionally.

death for the compromise

[february.6.2008.4:21pm]


wipe me from the floor
for my person has spilled
from the voids corroding
through the flesh of my
souls flask.

wipe my essence from
seeping into the ridges
of your nonchalant
attitudes woman hand
woven carpeting.

wipe my cores tears
that stream across the
windshield of my eyes in
sodden melancholy lines
that bear the bittersweet
taste of my pain sweetened
so sourly.

wipe me from the floor
for my existence has
been splattered through
the division of shards of
time being shattered.

wipe me from dying in
the silent death that
compromising relentlessly
provided.

possibly unamed

[february.6.2008.3:17pm]


curiosity dwells in my
youths lack of experience;
my soul isn't content with
empty fulfilllment of the
constant attempts of
manifesting possibilities
that only result in the
"what if."

my mind will invariably
vacation to those cerebral
excavations to uncover your
past existence now only
existing in my psyches power
of retaining and recalling
our past experience[s].

in the creases of my past
you'll remain unheard unseen;
embedded in the silk thread
of my memorys knitted seams,
forever remaining parallel to
my present.

the soul exchange

[february.5.2008.6:26pm]


legs disunite to expose
the vacancy that rests
on the surface of my
pages soft folds.

my script openly displays
itself;
sensually it offers your
pen to glide along the
lines that serve as guides
if any trace of misdirection
finds your firm strokes
for your steady hand delivers
thrusts of your papermate
to mate with my seams
in their margins.

ink brings my
melodic melody to
articulate themselves into
stanzas that soon come seen
manifest into metaphorical
expressions that slither from
my lips appreciation.

my pages become stained
with your pens volatile verbs,
verbs that explicitly exhibit
how soiled your vision is as to
how our playwright will be
written to its end.

our different styles of
approaching poetry poetically
marinate in the others
literary fluidity.

on the tombstone of our
shared precaution,
our poem becomes engraved.

for this isnt sex;
welcome to the soul exchange.