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Written by Will Henderson
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People have asked if I felt guilty for lying to you. If I had told you everything, you would have cried and you would have yelled and you would have kicked me out or changed the locks or walked away from me. You would have tipped your head back and screamed. You would have said we were over. You would have said I had no right to make you love me.
So I don’t feel guilty because when I asked for forever, I meant forever, and everything else was just noise.
You never lied about being a drug addict. You told me this detail about yourself at the very beginning. You defined yourself by this detail. In time, so did I. You may have lied about snorting pills with your friends, but you never lied about being an addict. I knew on day seven; and still, on day 10, I said yes to dating it out with you.
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Written by Deion Washington
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I was born in ‘83 to a city alive in fire and hurt, spent after seeping its lifeblood out to the streets where gangs and hoods all mish-mashed themselves like muddled oil to rage every other way while my city burned: Detroit- my nest and raven feather-fall hove- where outside is the silence of a thousand voices all breathing down their coats Get Me Out! or some wail of red and blue back-n-forth that meant another young man couldn’t take it anymore. Detroit! My Detroit, where the only motors are older and oily left rummaged, naked near some junk-scrap heaps or inside rust worn automotive train wrecks barreling down Gratiot windows up and nobody looking out, just straight-straight forward, like eye-contact might burn. I was young and heartfelt and earnest in everything- and God- and stayed to myself hold-tight in the four corners of my room where the crying didn’t get to me- not for years anyway.
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Opinions & Essays