Black Panther Party posters, by Emory Douglas.

Emory Douglas joined the BPP in 1967 and served as Minister of Culture, designing artwork that became potent symbols of the movement. Douglas originally helped with the layout of the Black Panthers’ newspaper, and realised that art could enhance their campaigns and reach the masses.

For Twenty [20/30]

For twenty plus days, I’ve been through the highs and lows of you.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been dreaming up a whole life with you.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been trying not to make every poem about you.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been using your laugh as my soundtrack.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been craving alcohol and Thai food.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been watching this thing get out of hand.

For twenty plus days, I’ve been failing at not being obsessed with you.

In Love With Myself [21/30 - 1 Day Late]

Today I noticed for the first time a tiny mole on the upper left side of my forehead. And I thought to myself, “It’s cute.”

And then I wondered how long it’s been there and what other cute things I haven’t noticed about myself.

So, this is a love poem for me and my penchant for bright colors even though I almost exclusively wear black. This is dedicated to my loud ass snore that everyone hates and wakes me in my sleep. Shoutout to the gray hairs that grow right in the middle of my head. I want to take this time to acknowledge my massive titties and my booty, it too, is big. I’m in love with my plump lips and how they swallow lipstick. My taste in music is dope even if it’s all just sad songs across many genres. I even love the way I write like run on sentences and stream of consciousness.

Today, I’m in love with me. And I wanted to write about it because, truthfully, I deserve me more than any boy.

Self-Soulmate [22/30]

I’ve spent enough time wondering which guy which best friend which stranger not noticing me on the street which non-match on Tinder could be my soulmate when the whole time, it’s me.

I might be the damn love of my life. I might be my own best friend. I might be a stranger to the parts of myself I haven’t found yet I might be the best damn thing on Tinder Cause whole time, my soul is full and needs no other to be complete.

On Board [23/30]

We met at a train station. I was scared, rocking nervously on the platform and you were a kind stranger that helped me step through the door. I wanted to talk to you so I sat next to you and tried to enjoy the silence. When I worked up the nerve to speak it was so easy and comfortable with you. Now, we’ve been on this train for days and I’m realizing that I don’t know the final destination or where I’m headed but I figure I’ll go along with you. When you get off, I’ll get off too. Until then, I’m just going to keep close to you.

Last Month [24/30]

Last month, my heart sank into my liver so I tried to drown it in tequila. I wanted to kill it.

Last month, I forced words from the mouth of my non-lover then let myself stumble into the bed of some other.

Exactly one month ago, I got dressed leaving behind another indiscretion, hoping next time to be less reckless.

Crystals And Stuff 20/30

Manifestation of a life that is most desired of a life without crippling fear and anxiety that swallows me whole and I’m fighting my way out because my husband is dead and I why yes, I am talking about my husband the bomb that I drop in the middle of conversations because how else do you expect me to get comfortable with the bomb that went off in my life seven years ago and has it been seven years already, the time went by and I’m rambling because I’m distracting myself from the life I really really want by sitting in the cage I’ve closed myself in again(?).

Not in the Mood [18/30]

I’m not in the mood today.

Not trying to compare anybody’s eyes to a sunset in autumn on a particularly cloudy evening.

Not feeling like explaining that my emotions are a pregnant elephant heavy.

Not wanting to pull at my brain like it’s twizzlers trying to string together the best phrases.

I’m not in the mood today.

And that’s okay.

Sometimes even a poet ain’t got shit to say.

Mood!!

Like a Poem [15/30]

I wonder if you look at me like I look at some of my poems.

Some of them, I hate so much that I’ll delete it all and not even try to write them over. Worthless. You don’t seem to think I’m worthless.

Some of them, are so personal I can’t even read them back to myself without being overwhelmed. Do I overwhelm you?

Some of them, are so cute and cheeky I don’t care who sees them and they make me smile. I know for a fact I make you smile.

Some of them are just words on a screen or paper that I’m using to say I wrote something. Am I just something you do?

But there are a few of my poems that I find so pretty and memorable that I think they must have written themselves because I cannot believe I grew these flowers. I wonder if you’ve ever marveled at me.

Wow.

I’m Never Going to Cuddle Though [14/30 - 1 day late]

She says, “Write about me” and I always say no.

So, I don’t write about how we don’t cuddle because she is rose petals delicate.

I don’t write about my fears that her bad memory is purposeful to make sure there’s enough room for the memories she refuses to forget.

I don’t write about how her moles looks like tiny freckles and it’s as cute as her nose, the one she hates.

I don’t write about her because she don’t hurt me and I don’t want to hurt her. So, I keep her out of my words of mass depression.

The Fourth Poem About You [13/30 - 2 days late]

I’ve decided to give you some time to rethink your rejection of me. You didn’t know me that well. My initial attraction was strong and possibly overwhelming.

But we’ve grown close and surely you must notice how often we think of each other in our solitary moments. Or maybe the way we talk in codes that only we understand. Or how our friendship is a safe place for our insecurities to lay.

Sure, we are friends but consider this: We might be one try away from the most magnificent and healthy love either of us will ever know if we let this friendship become more.

You're Not Welcome Here [12/30 - 3 days late]

It was December when I finally realized this non-affair had already consumed too much of my time.

So, I took all my embarrassment drowned it in tequila and used it to breathe a fire out my throat. I painted my curls gray to represent how old this all is- the tiresome story of me, another woman left reeling from the disappointment of some man. I wore a dress of deep red hanging off my shoulders- I was dripping in blood from trying to pull my heart from my chest.

Predictably, I went to a party where I drank enough to flirt too overtly before I found myself searching for answers I knew I wouldn’t find in the mouth of the easiest person to take this pain out on. We’ve made me a cliché.

And now, after I’ve cried to all the songs danced with poems in my restless mind you want to come back four months later saying you miss me and that the hurt is in the past.

Well, I say miss me- with your self-righteous forgiveness from the apology you don’t deserve and that I didn’t give. Miss me like the apology you never gave because you are never in the wrong. Miss me, as in you missed out on loving me wholly when you had the chance. Miss me, away from me. Go back to being missing.