What's That Called?

February 19, 2014
You know the feeling
When you begin to swing and you’re not going anywhere?
Your legs alternate forward backward and forward backward forward backward
You’re trying so hard but
There’s no progress?
What’s that called?
Failure to launch?
The end of something that has not even started?
Or is it just the beginning
Because after a while..slowly but surely..your feet only brush the ground
Ladies and gentlemen
We’re about to take off
Like a plane on a runway
Higher and higher
And filled with joy and laughter
It’s healthy competition between you and I.
What’s that called?

And once you’ve had a taste of success,
You want more
You can’t just live with your feet not touching the ground
They have to touch the sky
So you’ve gotten so high that you kick a tree branch
Great, but it’s still not good enough
You point your toes like hands on a compass pointing north to the heavens
You feel invincible and free.
You’re a bird literally.
What’s that called
Every bad choice has a repercussion
when you go back down just for a split second..your stomach drops with you
Realizing that you didn’t really want this
You didn’t want to be this
But you can’t stop now.
Swings don’t just stop like that
So you jump off
When you’re at your climax
You jump off the swing
You feel the tingly ants on your sole and your ankles
But besides the pain.
What this called?
Or Strength?
So when you told me You loved me.
I knew to call our relationship: requited, mutual, fusible, never lopsided.
But I didn’t know what to call it you told me you didn’t like my hair, but I knew that it felt like when I’m in a swing almost touching a cloud with my toe and the reigns pull me back down to the ground
My stomach drops
And I almost feel like throwing up
I thought you loved me.
My hair is me.
I could handle you wishing I was a different size.
I could ignore your snide remarks about my outfits or my makeup
But my hair. You’ve crossed the line.
My hair is my identity.
It my secrets and my past.
It’s my fashion statement icing my red-bottom loubitons.
It probably doesn’t look like it through your critical spectacles, but I spend hours caring for it.
just because it’s relaxed and the natural movement is popular doesn’t mean you should like my hair any less.
I’m not any less black because I don’t a have pick to accompany my ‘fro. I respect the movement, but I’ve so many insecurities about my natural hair from a young age.
I’m still learning to love myself, so I’m going to have to let you go.
It takes strength
To decide I will jump off the swing
And feel the pain tingling at the bottom of my soul

What’s this called?

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