Warning: This post gets vulgar. Just scroll on by if your heart’s weak
I’m sure most of you who read my posts know this song. Above is the famous chorus. If you don’t know the song you can click the excerpt for the lyrics and to hear the actual song if you’d like. I do love me some Musiq Soulchild. But yall know I didn’t put those lyrics there to sing his praises.
The theory that exists in within these desperate lyrics is that the woman he’s speaking to knows how to love and is, therefore, able to teach him. But I’m asking: Why should this now be her responsibility? Why does the misinformation you were given about love become her problem? And let’s think about this… who tf do you think taught HER?
Black women are not allowed to enter romantic relationships and “not know how”. To think that I drowned myself working at and developing my love for a black man who “didn’t know how” to reciprocate that effort is heartbreaking, to say the least.
He’s going to read this. He’s already opened this and is caught off guard because he was looking for part 2 of my academic insecurities post. Well, surprise boo. He already knows that I’m disappointed. He knows that he’s fucked up. But he should also know that I’m evolving. And quickly. I’ll be less forgiving later.
I don’t want to keep having this conversation about 4:44 in relation to how black women are treated. It’s now completely on black men to pick that apart and work on themselves productively. However, I feel forever compelled to express, publicly, the hurt I’ve been subjected to simply because I’m a black woman who loves black men romantically.
To black men: I don’t care to change you.
I don’t care to convince you that I matter. No matter how much radical love I can use as a framework, some of yall are too concerned with ego to acknowledge that I make any valid point. And even STILL, I’m not signing up to do that emotional labor anymore. So it’s not happening either way.
What I will do is make you uncomfortable. I will continue to surround you with my story about how working to be a perfect mate has only attempted to leave me broken and empty.
But I’ve eaten those punches.
I’ve reached a point where I no longer feel broken by love. And I’m sure as hell not empty. I’m filling up my life with all the strategies, energies, and brilliance I’ve poured into building up romantic relationships with black men. I’m feeling loved on and recharged. I’m fucking awesome. I have a lot to offer. And any black man who lives two bedroom doors down from his mom would be LUCKY to have my cute ass.
This whole thing is one of the reasons I won’t shame hoes or hoeisms. Because I’m at a point in my life where I truly believe and understand that protecting your heart is more important than protecting pussy sanctity. This directly conflicts with my religious beliefs but until I find a way to reconcile that, this is where I stand. We know protecting your pussy ACTUALLY means protecting it for the nigga you’re going to marry so he can slide into some hot wet blissful shit that he won’t be able to last in for more than a few strokes, and, fuck that. You deserve better sis.
And I’m done showing men how to love my amazing ass.
… Pun intended.