In this note, we talk our shit.

Shit shit sHit; a word I am trying to eliminate from my vocabulary. For now, fuck that shit.

It feels good to unfollow people that I have lost connection with. The pressure of my thumb, heavy, against my freshly, disinfected phone, turning that button from gray to blue.

(A burden vanquished and no one is safe.)

Free from the chore of mowing the lawn and touching up the paint of the façade we call, “friendship”.

Free from checking your mail when you do not have time, and leaving it on your steps when it’s mixed with mine.

“Refreshing” has been my favorite word recently.

This free time has allowed me to look at myself and invest; for that, my pockets are deep. 

Skin smoothest it’s been in many moons, body and face. Taking off my shirt to an Ezra Collective jazz tune stuck in my head chanting:

I am Him,

I am Taye Diggs Brown Sugar,

I am spirit of D’Angelo,

I am the best of my mother and my father.

A feeling for me, not to be shared.

Own space. Talk my shit.

Smell good. Talk that shit.

Looking good always; self-explanatory.

If we have not spoken in the past 30 days,

I do not know you, nor would I want to…my motto for the last 90 days.

 Through with giving when my basket is left empty,

stacking SMS makes me feel like Such a Motherfuckn Simp.

However, do not misinterpret, I am happy underneath my onionskin.

Peel these layers for a smile and a kiss.

by. Philip G. Steverson