Not Even A Morsel

Just brainstorming. Came up with this little ditty. Check it out My Dear Sweet Sistahs and Brothahs...


Not Even A Morsel

They had met quite wonderfully enough. But like any other thing that has baked, grew, ripened to become a delectable entity, with time, the shit just gets old, rancid. And maybe that’s what she needed, something fresh. Stale, three year old, bread. Mold covering the outside trying it’s damnedest to affect the internals. And like any bacteria, the bad, overtakes the host. Eventually leading to a point that there is nothing that can be salvaged and digested from the matter ever again. Inedible. She knew it was going to happen, but like most women she tried the hangin on credo because that is what is expected in this post-ERA era. A woman can’t cut and run like the men have been doing for thousands of years, leaving the man fending by himself, child to rear, alone.

“And why has that been so?” She asked herself such a profound statement, alone, contemplating just that, “Getting the fuck on down the road sans chick or child, sans baggage!” Traveling light like the days she always dreamed of. Need something fresh! Being able to sample and look at the marvelous produce that is out there! Yeah! That’s just what she needed, freshness! Ahhhh! Why not? You only have one life, she rationalized to herself, as she lay in the tub, de-stressing from another day of hell, fussing and fighting for no reason at all. Just couldn’t get along to save their lives not even with the child, now two years old. Yes, and she also knew, picking the freshest produce required work. And work started, and it didn’t stop until the work was done. And life wasn’t getting any longer. So things had to be implemented expeditiously, today or maybe tomorrow.

He had even said that, “I just want you to be happy. If not with me, than without me.” But she had heard all that shit before. She had met mah fuckahs that said that very statement, ended up being the worst to get rid of out of the lot for sure. Stalking you and shit. But he always said it with confidence, like, “I hope you really find what you are looking for after you leave my Black ass!” Like he knew something she didn’t, or thought of something she hadn’t thought of. Then he would always say the last statement that made her always doubt herself big time, but he wasn’t saying it cynically, but saying it as a statement of fact, of finality, “Be happy and don’t look back.” But she noticed after a time, he didn’t mean it for her to doubt herself. Far from it. Some type of unconditional love advice telling her, “Move on! Go forward! Have confidence in your decision and never think, “What if…? Moreover, once you make that statement never look toward me again as a significant other because I didn’t make you happy.” She always felt eerie in a way when he said that statement, made her ashamed in some way. Made her think about the reality of her given choices and how her choices determined her fate in life and only her fate because of said choices.

Yes, tomorrow she will start the day anew, begin to start cleaning the refrigerator out, to restock with freshness. She smiled at herself from that little witticism. Maybe that’s what happens when you start cleaning up your garden, replanting and subsequently harvesting the freshest produce around? But it starts with work. And work doesn’t stop until the job is done. As she melted into the suds in her bubble bath she breathed out, “Ahhhh! But it starts tomorrow!” (to be continued...)