The coochie.
The monkey.
Snatch.
Pussy.
Down Below.
Down there.
Cheetah Surprise (I just made that up).
It's got a lot of names but rarely do we ever hear a song (or poem) talking directly to and about that horny little creature of nature that will control your relationships if you don't control it first. When I started listening to Wild Cookie after returning from Ohio, that's where the embarrassement came in. Imagine if I heard (or LISTENED to) it before I arrived in Cincinnati to end a great beginning. I mean, if everything happens for a reason, then technically I needed to see him and subsequently fuck up in order to appreciate Wild Cookie for the lyrics it possesses.
Wild Cookie.
Smh. .....It's not like I've been out here passing out the wild cookie because I haven't. But this time, this pass, this End Deal really did me in. The dick was good. It was. I won't act like I ain't want it because I totally 100% DID. But I wanted my cake and eat it too. I wanted the man and the dick. The start and not the finisher. And all I ended up with was a fist full of broken rocks. I can't ever do that again.
I don't have it in me.
I don't have anything left to dish out except the woman I am. I don't have anything left in ME to hurt myself with, yet I know that if given a chance to, I will hurt myself again through another person. It's like being a cutter.
My Wild Cookie is the cutter and I keep slicing lines across my skin, trying to break it open and relieve the fear of all things with a temporary feel good fix that won't last long enough for me to remember I was pain free. Wild Cookie.
This is what the song Wild Cookie is about. Not letting your pussy get the best of you and control your life. Not being strung out on dick. Or thinking that a dick is the key to the heart. I admit, I don't know the quickest way to a man's heart (it's not his stomach), but I do know the easiest way to take it off the table is letting him get that Wild Cookie before it's time.
Yesterday,
to the thoughts of Wild Cookie, I write my newest poem. I don't hardly write poetry as often as I used to and definitely not as effortlessly. But yesterday, in the new sitting area of my bedroom, I penned my version of Wild Cookie, as seen by my eyes but felt by Jill Scott's words first:
BFDs
Fucking you
would be a disservice to us both
And we both
know better
Or at
least, we SHOULD know better
Fucking
you,
Would lead
to unexpected expectations
Call
…waiting
Waiting to
call
To text
To see
what’s next, what’s left after the smoke of moan signals and soul mixing
disintegrates into the air,
I would
lose control
I admit to
that
Fucking you
ain’t gonna be no kick back, I might start to over think some shit and come up
with sudden questions,
See I’m
safe guarded and fucking you is gonna rattle my alarm system
I need to
know where your head’s at and I don’t mean the flick of you tongue, I need to
get head sprung off the genuine in you like an LL Cool J for januarie song
Us
I need to
know about what us, what is us, what are we doing, these shouldn’t even be
questions because I need a man old enough to know how to act in his confessions
to the truth about everything,
Fucking you
is just going to confuse these,
End these
things
Chase is
over our flames like water pouring rain on our campfire … dammit I learned from
the last time,
I said,
dammit I learned from the last time,
Fucked up
some good shit for the last time by fucking a nigga the last time, turning a man
into a dick, bruised his scorpion ego a lil bit,
A miles
apart Richard
And now I
keep picturing how a beautiful start turned into a Jekyll and Hyde ending
Because
he’s still jekyling around in me, hiding
He deposited
petty cash of his memory on my stomach
Hashtag Soul
ties
It will be
another six months before I’ve finished excreting our physical compensation for
the work we put in
And I’ve
already been forgotten by him, brushed off by him and flushed off by him…
I’ve
started praying anytime my mind can’t refrain from replaying the top ten
mistakes I made,
I can’t lay
in another bed like this, because I made this shit and now I must cuddle up
with this King and love it…
A solo
mattress affair
Party of
one, a mere three weeks ago I was laid up in arms I thought tasted like
protection
The irony
of his black out curtains and the fact that all I remember is his orgasm and
not mine
Damn you
Ciroc and bad decisions … .BFDs. Bad Fucking Decisions.
Fucking you
would be a BFD to us both,
An insult
to our potential and an assault on our time clocks,
We are
dying with each breath we take and I’d rather not take big heaping ones from
the entry of your penis before your penetrated my life
In general…no
more wasted time….make me know I’m not an option on a cross contaminated plate,
Rather I am
the muse of every slow song on the radio during our car rides, it is my face,
riding the tip of your erected anticipations,
I am the
liaison, the reason you take selfies in the mirror at the gym,
I’m the
like, the love, the one, the right, the up, the guide, the blind in your sight
and the sight in your blind,
Fucking you
would be a disservice to every place our minds could go to complete each
other’s unstructured sentences,
I can be
your subject
And you can
be my predicate
And we can
plant kisses on paper as if we the ink in words
Like we the
definition in words
Like we
words….the creation of words, the calling out of random words,
Do rae me
fa so la ti do jahraymecofasola, jill scott,
When we can
make love like we complimentary words of each other, neo soul song loving, love
jones ending – new beginning, learning and loving each other like we sinning
with perfect strikes
Adverbs and
actions and shit,
Matter a
fact, you don’t even have to want that shit,
Just step
out of the way of the man who does ….
Cause
that’s the one I want to keep close
I don’t
want your ignored calls
Or my
confused feelings
And that’s
why fucking you would be a disservice to us both.
~januarie York
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