cutting my losses, counting my wins

it takes a lot for me to learn a song. more specifically, the lyrics. no matter how many times i hit repeat, the prevailing components in my memory are the melody, the texture, the energy i'm left with. but the words consistently evade me. of course, every rule has its exceptions: “Love Ridden” and “Not About Love” by Fiona Apple, “Chop Suey” by System of a Down, Stunting Ain't Nuthin by Gucci Mane feat. Slim Jxmmi and Young Dolph (who don't got no business being dead), and Young M.A's verse on her Brooklyn Chiraq remix.

once the earliest save on my SoundCloud account — i have since un-liked and re-liked it to move it higher up in my library — my now ex-best friend put me on to this joint. her verse is one of the few i have memorized like the back of my hand, and that's because i studied at the feet of RapGenius, running back the track for hours and etching the words onscreen into the folds of my brain. now, i can float along without missing a beat, omitting only one line (it references intimate partner violence too casually for my taste). i can only truly connect to the homage she pays to Brooklyn nigga, that's Kings County, but i still rap that plug talk and gang shit like i lived it myself. i be sounding like ima pull up on Mr. Hayes on his release day too!

i dedicated myself to learning those lyrics because i loved the verse, yes, but my study also came to symbolize the magnitude of someone i considered family taking care to introduce me to something they knew i’d be into. an ouroboric pas a deux. "it matters to me because it matters to you because it matters to me..." whenever we closed the distance keeping us apart, we'd play the Brooklyn Chiraq remix at least once. a token of our camaraderie spent to summon two minutes and fifty-seven seconds of pure heat. audacious and in sync, we were the niggas with no manners Young M.A spoke of. a squad of two, our word was bond.

the meaning we made within our friendship seemed to know no bounds. it was otherworldly even, so proud were we to call ourselves celestial twins. you name it: letters exchanged, raps written, rituals performed (officiating my living funeral for me, completing a collaborative fireside ceremony for them). a shared lexicon of commitment and care, which, like any language, will die when it is discarded by its speakers.

it's been nearly impossible to know what to make of someone i thought to be a wordsmith deading our nearly decade-long friendship by sending a text message. one riddled with platitudes, that provided no reason(s), and that had fewer sentences than the years we'd known each other (yes, i counted). i'd call the irony bitter if it all wasn't so tasteless, and best believe i made may displeasure with the delivery abundantly clear. in the span of several weeks and six total messages exchanged, our chapter closed with my "goodbye and good riddance." an unceremonious linguicide. i'm the type if ion fuck witchu, don't come near me, don't come round me. we said bet that.

unfortunately, this situation was no standalone. it was the insult that follows the proverbial injury: my other best friend of nearly ten years ended things less than three months prior. i made it clear that i didn't like an insensitive remark they made to and about me, they doubled down and then called me harsh when my discomfort morphed into anger. ultimately, it was their call to sever our relationship. so it goes, i suppose. twin flames can indeed be extinguished.

where the cord feels unequivocally cut within the more recent separation, i'm actively tying up loose ends within this one. i'd pursue a cleaner break, but we remain united due to our organizational ties. the ongoing disentanglement of our finances asks a presence of me that i don't want to give, but Uncle Sam, insolvent as he is, don't give a fuck about our breakup. state-based obligations demand a bureaucratic slowness, and i am speaking to the specter of my former best friend far more often than i want to. it's exasperating to have even had to request that they stop using terms of endearment to refer to me in the aftermath of their decision to call it quits. if i can slightly tweak one of the lines from “Love Ridden”: no, not bestie anymore / if you need me, you just use my simple name.

both of these relationships were central fixtures of my twenties, so the back-to-back shock of chosen family not choosing me anymore as an introduction to my thirties has rattled me. imagine the first full breath of air after being socked in the gut. the dull blow followed by a seemingly never-ending onslaught of tear-spilling sputters, wheezes, and gags: a total surrender that side-mirrors death into appearing closer than it actually is. then, without fail, comes the hard-fought inhalation, unsteady and gasping with the knowledge of what it took the body to finally uncurl itself. that's where i've been for most of March, dear reader. adjusting my posture after absorbing visceral pain.

i won't pretend like i'm past the grief. two of the people i felt safest with became strangers to me over the span of a winter. with the finality, however, i can't help but reach for expectant resignation. i'm salty as hell, yet sweetness never ceases to find me. though i'm more alone than i already was, my future beckons for me to meet it. i find an affinity with the figure on ten of swords who lies gravely wounded on the shore while the dawn still approaches.

spring has arrived, and my world gingerly opens too. wisteria petals rain down from above, pruning as they bloom, weaving themselves around the pine before landing among the violets and clover. bees hum in and out of the holes in my house's mortar, and i wonder if i can ask my new roommates for some money, honey as i try to crunch the numbers between recent pay cut and impending rent increase. the days separating me and my lover's next embrace shrink in number. and i, standing up straighter, continue trusting my voice.

yesterday, i was running late to support a new friend as her short premiered during the Atlanta African Film Festival. without the fear of my heart lurching, i opened up SoundCloud to search for the perfect soundtrack to pick up flowers then head to the theater. ah man, the squad is here... my passenger seat carried nothing but gently-worn KN95s, an upended hand sanitizer, and a bottle of water missing a few sips: a menagerie far more common inside my car's steely black refuge than the weight of another person. somehow, i knew i wouldn't feel overwhelmed — or even affected — by missing my former twin as the remix played. i dance on the grave of what we had, ready to put on a show in the driver's seat. because at the end (and beginning) of the day, i'll always be committed to locating myself whenever other niggas lose me or leave me.

sending you peaceful tidings, dear reader. i’ll be back soon.

gratefully,

Dkéama

post script

today is the one year anniversary of my grandma’s death. i miss her dearly. put sumn in the air for her if you fuck with me!