Jumping off of a bathtub seems like such an easy task doesn’t it? Imagine a shower rod so strong and powerful that even being connected to a rope that intimately hugs my neck will keep me swinging sturdy and balanced. 

Before moving into this home, I made sure that the ceiling in my bathroom was high enough for this moment. I had them hand craft steps in order to get inside the tub because I didn’t want the fall to be “ordinary”. I needed it to be dramatic. 

The house I have is built from tears and lack of compassion. I used to make Facebook statuses pretending to anonymously seeking the opinions of others on how to cope. Trying to weed out who has the right level of compassion for me to reach out and run into their arms for help and everyone failed. Because I had it harder than others, and chose to swing as my way out, I’m probably listed in the dictionary as a coward according to your definition. 

While I was pacing back and forth in my room popping pills, and playing tic tac toe with my wrists, I was losing it. I called you and told you I felt depressed and your response was “lol, girl”. “You’ll be alright”, “pray about it” and all I needed you to do was fucking listen. Listen to me explain again how I didn’t think I could recover from heartbreak. How I still haven’t recovered from my dad beating me, to the punch. Wait, I forgot I was supposed to just deal with it. 

This is me dealing with it. Let’s hang. 



No, my name is not Hannah. No I don’t have 13 reasons why, I only have one. 
I ran a red light tonight. The transition happened so quickly because as soon as the impact happened, I woke up outside of the pearliest gates I’d ever seen. 
Before approaching the light, I mentally played a visual PowerPoint of every game you’ve ever played with my emotions. I stopped and remembered dates. Times where I changed your name to emojis that symbolized drugs or destruction. Moments where I walked down the street picking up my own blood, only to find myself in your arms again, and again. 
Moments after settling in, my welcome home was interrupted by a moment I assumed I had been waiting on forever. The last time you told me you loved me was when we randomly became one after our grooves decided to collide. See what I did there? They say distance makes the heart grow stronger and man did I want to get on my knees and thank God so much for allowing me to be the only runner in this race to be your bride. You shattered my hopes quicker than I went through the windshield and I didn’t even get to make peace with Him before I entered his heaven because I only cared to gain peace with you, and never even got a piece of you. 


The last time I tasted you, I could still smell her. 

Her favorite fragrance lingered on your skin, and as much as it bothered me I continued to engage in all that you have to offer. 

I thought that my infatuation was with you, I’m starting to think it’s with her. What she can give you that causes you to stay, yet still have pieces of her everywhere you go. Amazing. 


Y’all half a&$ your relationships with people, and once these people are done with you, you claim God has given you confirmation. 
No, He gave it to them. Honestly, truly.


It’s so amazing how silently you cum every time our schedules align. 

I’ve had three strangers play OBGYN to me this week, and I think you’ll be my last.. 

It amazes me how much you respect me. Not even a warning before dropping your kids off on the bed of my insides only to flush them out with a bunch of plans that we didn’t even think would B. 


I catch everything that you drop, including your children. 

On my knees hoping that this time will be different. If I go just a little harder, get a little messier than maybe you’ll see me as more than just your Karrine.. and you never do. 


The Residual Effects of Social Media Culture

The social ills of instant gratification and social media approval will prove to output diminishing returns and will not survive the test of time, in my honest opinion.  Fortunately and unfortunately, social media has given everyone the ability to become virtual artists. Great, we are all Basquiat except, we’re Basquiat – completely unblemished. This side of Basquiat excludes his heroin infused addiction, his nomadic-ally vagrant lifestyle, and his constant depressive state. We get the genius and the ingenuity, with zero hints of the dark side. We have been privileged with the great ability to paint pictures with no flaws. Completely dangerous, if you ask me. 

The explosion and exploitation of social media has set the world aflame. Documentation and nostalgic experiences are photogenic as ever and the future looks as bright as the 1 o’clock afternoon sun. However, we know there are plenty of rainy days that the multitude of people very conveniently refuse to cover. Donnie would call this “Fake News” and for once in my life I’d have to admit that I agree with Donnie. I believe there is a direct correlation between perception and reality with a great number of impressionable minds digesting whatever is put out to the public. Completely dangerous, if you ask me.

So with great power comes great responsibility and I believe many of us are not up for the challenge of playing “role model” but the truth is, the narrative that we put out to the world does effect the social conditioning of the world we live in. Even more so, affecting the precedence for generations to come. We glamorize acclaim, fame, cosmetically engineered beauty, and budding results. However, no one wants to talk about the falls before the climb, no one wants to talk about how we wanted to tap out before inhaling and exhaling one more time, and no one wants to talk about or showcase the dark side of Basquiat. Don’t paint the picture, tell the story. Do it responsibly and with integrity. The law of polarity states that nothing is one-sided; everything contains it’s opposite. With darkness comes light, with goodness comes evil. Life is dual sided. Don’t paint the picture, tell the story. 

Will York