“I didn’t mean to kill her. I mean, I didn’t kill her. No, no. I would never. That’s not my job. The others, the outside, they’re the ones who did it. They’re the ones who drove her over. That’s not my job. My job is to protect. To protect her… I protected her from them on the outside. I had to.  I had to because she didn’t know to be afraid. She didn’t understand how dangerous they could be. You see, she was too reckless as a child, too free. That’s why I was assigned to her. She needed to learn. . . I guess you could call me a teacher. And I’m very good at my job, you know. By the age of 6 she knew to be afraid of the dark. Every night I would remind her to turn her closet light on. And I wouldn’t let her go to sleep without it because every night I would show her what could possibly be waiting for her in the shadows, what creatures crept and crouched down the hallway. She kept her closet light on for years. Even as an adult, every now and then, she would remember the things that I showed her. Those images will always be there. It was my job. My job. By the age of 13 she knew that failure was not an option. She knew that mediocre was not an option. She knew because I taught her. And in those moments she forgot she wasn’t perfect, I would remind her. I made sure to do so in front of everyone so that they could see that she wasn’t perfect, and that she knew to be better. I’ll admit, I was hard on her, but she had to learn. And it was my job to teach her. My job. I’m very good at my job, you know? Up until her last days, she knew better than to be less than perfect. She knew not to try if she was anything less than. Because the others, on the outside, they wouldn’t accept her at mediocre. You see, they’re the bad guys. They’re the ones who want to hurt her. I mean, wanted to hurt her. Just like every male I told her not to let in. By the age of 17, she knew not to trust one to love her because at the age of 7 she saw how her father treated her mother. I made sure she saw. I knew that even though she wouldn’t understand it at the time, she would later on. She needed to learn that if she opened up that door to herself, that’s how she would be treated. Always. But as she grew older, she also grew stubborn. She decided not to listen to me. The reckless behavior she practiced as a child kept creeping back up. That four-year old heart of hers that wasn’t scared of anything kept opening the door. And whenever I would slam that door closed, she would open up the window. Seven times this happened. And on the seventh, a grenade was thrown in. I remember it setting her room on fire. I remember keeping her door locked… No, I didn’t help her. She should’ve listened. She should’ve known better. I had to teach her to know better. It was my job. So from that day forth, whenever the others would come around, no matter how “nice” they looked or how “good” they portrayed themselves. I would remind her. I would remind her that she’s not perfect, that her door shouldn’t be opened because the others wouldn’t like what was on the inside. I would remind her of her scars, and of her room that the sun could no longer reach because the window had been burned black. I would remind her that she is still afraid of the dark… Yes, you could say it isolated her… I isolated her? Oh no. No. That’s not my job. My job is to protect her from the others. Was, I mean. Don’t you remember? They’re the bad guys. I explained this already. I didn’t mean to kill her. I mean, I didn’t… I didn’t kill her.”


A few days ago I received a prompt from a fellow writer and friend. He told me to pick the perspective of anyone or anything and to write from that perspective without unveiling the identity of that perspective. Not only that, but I had to start the piece with “I didn’t mean to kill her.” It’s a very exciting prompt and it didn’t take me very long to figure out what it was that I wanted to write. It is something that I’ve been struggling with more frequently than I was prepared for since I got back to school. And even though it’s not necessarily a nice thing to experience, I knew that this prompt was the perfect opportunity to finally write it out.


Everyone has a voice in their head that kind of accompanies them throughout their days. It never really stops talking and it has an opinion on every and anything that they may see, hear, smell, do or feel. For some, it doesn’t even have the decency to shut its mouth when they’re trying to sleep. And just like the tangible, these voices have their good and bad days. Their tone, the message they want to send, and the words they choose to send these messages may vary. On some days they’re harsher than necessary, and on others they are your personal hype-man/hype-woman. And some days, they make you laugh when no one else can. Now, from the piece you read earlier, you might assume that all my days with my voice are bad and that they’ve been bad since I could write my name. That’s not true. I have a lot of good days. It’s just that recently, when the bad days come around, they’re especially bad. They’re almost cruel. And it’s only recently that I have been able to identify why I sometimes convince myself that my friends don’t care about me, why I isolate myself so often, why I rarely ever speak up when I’m being mistreated, and why it’s taken me so long to finally start writing for real and sharing what’s on my heart. It’s because of that voice in my head. For so long, it’s dragged me to that grey space it’s created in my mind; a place that lacks any type of self-love or self-worth. It’s kept the lights off , the window covered, and the door locked. It’s kept the people that love me on the outside. And it only lets me out when it feels like it… But I think it’s time to change things up a bit.


I’m painting the walls yellow.


We Started Something

We started a garden, my God and I. It was inevitable. I was given soil, and rain, lots of rain, and even more sunlight. How could we not have started a garden? It was inevitable. I’m glad.

The seeds were unknown to me at first. I knew what I’d wished to grow, what I’d wanted, what I’d dreamed. For a while I was scared I wouldn’t get it, but even the best seeds can turn ugly, even the best can reject the sun. I planted anyway, still wishing.

It didn’t take long for me to see that I was growing Happiness. I have good eyes, but even the blind would be able to smell it, the sweet scent of yellow, like the faint memory of honeysuckle. It makes me smile, and laugh, and cry. All these things are good under the sun, and in the rain, and in the soil. They nurture on purpose. They nurture with intent to produce good fruit. My God and I love good fruit.

My God and I, we’re growing Happiness on purpose. Every morning, under His sun, I bless my soil with the most tender kisses, and cry love to my gardens roots. I watch my Happiness sprout and grow, and grow and grow. I’m overwhelmed. I’m full. I’m warm.

The weeds try to gossip, but they are just weeds. I think they’re unhappy. Their petals hold no lasting beauty, not like my Happiness. My Happiness is undeniable, indeed.

I never thought I’d have a garden. I also never thought Happiness could grow so near to me. I’m glad my God changed that thought. I’m glad the soil and the rain and the sun were given. I’m glad growth is inevitable. I’m glad.

7.4.18 A Moment

After a day’s struggle, I found contentment on the remains of an old shed, watching the man I love and the father of our adoptive family play a game of horseshoe. We were living under a cloudy sky as soft breezes rolled through, following the setting sun, kissing our sweaty skin. Across the fence, the neighbors were playing nostalgic records, lighting sparks in the bodies of young music lovers, warming up sweet memories of childhood, of barbecues in big back yards, and playlists the grown folks claimed we “didn’t know nothin’ bout.” And maybe we didn’t at the time, but now we’re grown. Now, as were living past the age of bubbles and tag with cousins of cousins, just a moment’s swaying tune has the power to bring a past we could never know to a present we have yet to understand.

Do grown folk’s ever understand?

I think, after looking back on the blessing that was today, sometimes understanding is overrated. It’s the feeling that’s undeniable. It’s the experience that permeates the ages.

Experience is everything.

Today’s experience was everything.

Let Me Explain

I feel kind of redundant coming back to you guys in this manner because I literally was just like, “Hey! I’m back! Here’s my brain! Read it!” Maybe this feeling is irrelevant, I don’t know. All I know is I’m trying to start something, or spread something. It could possibly be a brand in the future (maybe now?), but at the moment it’s more of a mindset, and in order to start and spread this mindset (brand?) successfully, you guys need to understand exactly what it is.

My very first post, “Untitled”, touched on this topic. I don’t think it was very direct for (like) 99% of the post. It was actually kind of sad. I think I only mention “yellow” once. In the last sentence I wrote, “I’m painting my walls yellow.”

That is the important thing! It’s the most important! It’s the whole point!

Let me stop yelling. Let me explain.

First: the color yellow in practice (specifically through sunshine) revealed its importance to me a little while back. Although I have not yet been diagnosed, I know for a fact that I struggle with anxiety. Add in a few depressive episodes here and there. But what’s new? In today’s world, this statement holds true for most people, give or take some intensity. It seems to be one of the devils favorite new weapons of mass destruction. It’s unfortunate, but because he is not the ultimate ruler, we (the sufferers) have been given good things, little and not so little, that shed light on these unfortunate lives we live. These good things vary depending on the sufferer, but mine specifically is nature, more specifically, sunlight. Whenever I’m feeling anxious, I don’t hesitate to make my way outside to find a patch of it to sit in. It warms my soul, reminds me to breathe. It’s my comfort.

Another thing! Sunflowers. I love sunflowers. A while ago I went to an art show with a very close friend of mine. I saw the most beautiful sunflower painting I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It was so beautiful that it left me standing in the middle of a river of art goers, crying, like a very sad woman.

In reality though, I was so happy.

So, I believe I can truthfully state that my spirit is drawn to yellow. Not just yellow in color, but yellow in essence. Yellow to me means bright, open. It means freedom. And freedom is very important to me, someone who is so often trapped within herself. That’s why I always try to sit next to windows, to remind myself that I’m never lacking a peep hole, a way out, and way for Good to reach in.

This leads me to my second point.

As humans living in a world that is so perverted by a being that does not want us to believe we are free, many of us are lead to put ourselves into little gray boxes, and the parts of ourselves that are weakest in standing against the adversary are deemed righteous enough to hold the key to this box, with no intention of letting us out. And for those of us who struggle mentally, who struggle to fight bad thoughts, who can’t seem to get a grip on any type of tangible happiness, we often don’t have the energy to fight for the key. We’re laughed at by the key holder, who says “what’s the point?” We get stuck in a windowless room, living in gray.

This is where the message shines through. Although the energy to take back the key may seem out of reach, the room itself is not, and the opportunity to change the room around is always there.

What I’m saying is, paint your walls yellow! Or purple or red or blue or green! Put up posters, pictures, stickers, lights! Do something with the space you’re given! The world you were brought into might not be ideal, but you were given a great gift: your will power. That is something that can never be taken from you, no matter how weak or far away it may seem. And if you look in the right places, you’ll find an abundance of resources to help you brighten up the small space you inhabit in this world of gray boxes.

You have the paint. Just pick up the brush.

This concept is part of what inspired me to create The Yellow Nook, just one of the spaces in my life that I’ve decided to rearrange. I’ve been writing for most of my life, but a part of me has always deemed my thoughts and expressions unworthy to be shared. So, I’ve kept this part of myself hidden for a very long time. Then, Love sent some sunshine my way in the form of people who wanted to read my thoughts, and who thought it was important for me to share them with others. They essentially reached inside my gray space and flicked a little light on, pointing me in the direction of the paint I’ve been given, softly nudging me into action. Look at me now, a once gray nook, slowly shifting towards the light, bathing myself in yellow, in freedom.

You guys are nooks too, full of colors today’s world has probably never seen before. I just want to remind you that your colors are worth it, and they’re important to the work of the Man who gave the rainbow a purpose.

This is my nudge to you. Do something with the space you’re given.

That’s my spiel for today. I hope I made sense.



Daily Dose -love misunderstood-

Honesty is key, right? Let me be blunt real quick.

I just suffered through a panic attack (thankfully, not alone this time) because all my life, I’ve been told that I’m selfish, and that I need to get over myself. These words were and are still thrown at me by a woman who I love dearly, one that I can never stop loving because she’s taken care of me before herself my whole life. And I know this woman loves me because she tells me everyday. She’s a woman who’s picked up the slack of everyone around her who has let her down, and has built up the things she’s needed from close to nothing. She is one of the strongest black women I’ve had the privilege of knowing, and because of this, my whole life, I’ve longed for her acceptance and approval. I want to be one of the people in her life that doesn’t let her down. I want to make her proud.

But to her, I’m selfish. And for her, I’ve had to “get over myself” time and time again in order for her to feel comfortable around me, around the person I am. For a long time, the practice of this had me convinced that who I was was a problem, one that she can’t fathom anyone else in the world dealing with without also either pushing me away, or convincing me that I am insufferable. It’s made for some very lonely times for myself, and moments where I’ve pushed people away, people who love me, because I couldn’t imagine anyone being able to deal with me.

I’d been slowly convinced that the person I am was unloveable. And this had been done by a woman who I know loves me! The fact of this makes no sense, but fact is fact.

I’ve realized something though. The person that she is, no matter how much love she has for me, cannot understand me. The person that she is leaves no room in her life for the things that she cannot understand. This leaves me broken, self ripped from flesh. Empty. And if I continue to live empty, just so she can be comfortable around me, just so she won’t denounce me, I’ll end up losing myself completely.

I’m just starting to like myself.

I have yet to talk to her about this. I’m scared. I don’t want her to stop talking to me, and I don’t want to hurt her, but this issue has proven itself unavoidable. Right now I’m just praying for courage. I’m praying for a way to fix the things that are broken, and a window to shed light on the things that are not.

Daily Dose -nameless-

This is a few weeks old. I wrote it while I was at work, thinking about all the times I’ve interacted with people who didn’t find it necessary to learn my name. They were chipping away at me. Since then, I’ve been able to gather a few of my pieces back.

Although it is a few weeks old, my soul still finds it necessary to share. It is not today’s Daily Dose, but it’s worth isn’t defined by it’s “yesterday”.

June 4, 2018 – Traveling through the universe without a name is lonely. And more often than not, you don’t end up traveling without a name because you weren’t given one. No, more often than not, it’s simply that those who travel in your midst find no use in it. For some reason, they only see you as a space filler, a paper weight. And they, in all their self-righteousness, decide to deem your title unworthy, completely unaware of the fact that they have no such power. Their ignorance aids in the misfortune of those whose names go unrecognized, those who don’t yet know to shout their purpose to the farthest reaches of space.

Not too long ago, I was given a few words that touched me deeper than I was prepared for by a woman who broke boundaries. She’s a poet, one who is not afraid to speak in a lyrical language that others might not understand, simply and truthfully because her soul refuses to be silenced. A woman who grows her own magic, by the grace of God, just as she grows the hair out of her own head, natural and proud, and wears her skin the way it was supposed to be worn. Shameless.

This woman, who exudes womanhood and humanity with confidence, said to me, “Sister, walk your beauty and intellect around the world.”

How could I have forgotten?

To the Handful

To the handful of people who have visited the Yellow Nook, I appreciate you.

To the handful of people who find my thoughts worth reading, I appreciate you. I don’t fully understand you, but I appreciate you.

To the beautiful professor who deemed my inner life “deep” and had the patience to convince me to start a blog in the first place, I appreciate you.

To the man who would wait till 5 a.m. to read my 5 a.m. Thoughts, to be that one view I always woke up to, I appreciate you.

I feel weird even typing this out. It’s like I’ve lost my momentum, my courage. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting. I think, along with my momentum, I lost my purpose in this type of writing, in sharing. I think I forgot that it’s not something that’s just tangible on it’s own, it’s something that I have to make. And I was so busy making other things (things that I can’t even share with you guys yet) that I deemed this less important. In general, that’s just not fair.

So, I guess I’m back. And I’ll do my best to stay back, to share as much as I can, and continue practicing this thing that I love so much.

I don’t yet know when or how often I’ll be posting, like I did with the 5 a.m. Thoughts. I’ll figure something out.

Gosh, I suck at this now. Okay, I’m gonna go.

But, I shall be back this time.

Peace be unto all, within and without yourselves.


I didn’t sleep last night. I was going to make this statement sound a bit more poetic, but I dont think it does the fact of it justice. Simply put, I didn’t sleep last night. Not until 7:00 AM at least. There was no inclination, no desire, no pull. I couldn’t even force myself, which I tried to do because I had to start a nine hour shift in the morning. Despite my brain knowing my situation, in no way did it unclench it’s twisted muscles to let the effect of night seep in.

I did not sleep last night.

Instead, I talked. With no real consciousness of time or flesh, I talked. I talked until the sun tinted the blinds with morning. I talked until words traded places with kisses and fingers danced poetry pens only wished they could write over living earth, until tongues smudged away scripted flowers, only for the dance to start again. I talked until words were no longer needed. I talked under the stars and in the stars. I talked until the stars believed that under and in me was where they wanted to be. I talked the moon into the sun, I talked the heavens to the earth, I talked purple into yellow, until all was one, and nothing was alone. 

I talked myself into peace.

And then I fell asleep for two hours. Then I went to work for nine. Now I’m tired, but I’m not opposed to meeting morning tinted blinds with open eyes again. 

I should talk more.