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i wrote this on the day i thought i was going to die.


today i thought i was going to die and was so pissed that god would let me die on a campus i hate in a program i despise. I always saw myself going out in the thick of my happiness. my school reported an active shooter on campus and i was afraid i was going to spend my last minutes…

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Ph.Ds & Other Drugs


For the past six months, every conversation with a close friend has eventually veered into the direction of the three-word sentence––I hate school. My three closest Chicago friends, whom I met while completing an Americorps program, have each at one point or another been on the listening end of this rant. As a collective, we found ourselves committing a full…

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why i wouldn’t be me without “mama’s gun.”


It’s difficult for me to admit this now, but I desperately wanted to be one of those shea butter queens I make fun of now. I imagined myself with a huge afro before I had even cut the perm out of my hair, was two years early on the coconut oil craze, and used to take scraps from my uncle’s…

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Grad School: A Manifesto


  A few days ago, my Intro to Graduate Studies professor asked us to write a manifesto, a degree of our intentions as readers and writers in graduate school. My manifesto was tame, lame, beautifully written but missing so many elements of what I truly wanted to get off my chest. This is a re-write of my manifesto, a piece…

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Baecation: A NOLA Tale


So. This year has been pretty dreadful. I spent a good half of the year complaining about the organization I moved to a whole new city to work for. I was stressed, underpaid, and overworked. I worked with a white woman who wanted to identify as a woman of color and cried because “I didn’t love her.” Y’all. Y’all. Then…

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a summary.


this post was inspired by solange’s 30th birthday instagram post.  at two years old, i stopped breathing and was rushed to the er. at four, my lungs learned how to function. i stuck a lego piece in my ear and got sent back to the er. at five, i wore a poofy pink dress for my party and took one…

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For The Imperfect Black Girls.


Recently I’ve been on this kick. This downward spiral, self-loathing, pick myself up again with Maya Angelou quotes and basil on my windowsill kick. This lack of water, skin breakout, healing myself and killing my wallet with skincare products kick. This telling everyone I know “yo this has been the hardest year of my life” kick. This PTSD and depression…

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Heal.


I bought rosemary and basil and put them on my windowsill. I keep promising my body more water. I believe in Prince and Lemonade. Healing feels less like a baptism and more like running my fingers along a jagged knife. This post is part of Write Your Ass Off April, a Twenties Unscripted 10-Day Writing Challenge #WYAOApril. I am responding…

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Ascend.


  A Very Brief Love Letter. Prince Rogers Nelson, As a child, I was supposed to hate you and everything you represented. The gender fluidity, the provoking sexuality, the antithesis of everything I was taught to be. My family clung to Michael and rejected you, so naturally, I was drawn. You had the glitter, the extravagance, everything I wanted to be…

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Love.


No one ever sat me down and told me what healthy, wholesome love looked like. My concept of love has always been based on knowing what it ain’t: my parents. Love isn’t disconnected cable and alarm clocks when you don’t get your way. Love isn’t sequestered dreams and revenge plots, pettiness and microaggressions. Love is not hurting me. When I…

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