Poetry by Taveesha Guyton
Photo Source: Pinterest
A Woman’s Blues (I’m Tired)
I try hard to remove the mask.
This feeling feels heavy like a coat.
Lined on the inside of this coat are the demands
shoulda-coulda ain't got no choice but too.
My shoulder pads are the burdens
placed there long before I arrived:
the obligation to endure
what broke the women before me,
and the expectation
to be strong
without ever looking tired.
It gets heavier and heavier. I wear this mask daily, like a uniform.
I do not know how to remove it without removing myself.
It is an attachment. It follows me like a shadow in low-lit places.
I have tried to outrun it, but it knows my history.
This feeling drapes over me like a haze of smoke, smog, and heat. And uncomfortable comfort, which allowed me to get too comfortable, I have become complacent.
I feel like no one sees it as it slowly grabs me by the throat and rattles me like a rag doll.
And to be honest, I cover these feelings so well. I have been strong too long, but what people do not see is that there are cracks in my foundation.
I make believe that this Maybelline is covering all my insecurities or that this Cover Girl, got ya girl covered.
While I look like I got my stuff together, I really am grasping at straws.
Every day, I put on my war paint, showing the world my brave, bold face, which I cover with a mask.
Cleaning
When I cannot stop thinking about you, I clean.
I clean everything from fan blades to baseboards.
I clean the oven I never use, and the microwave I use way too much.
I clean fallen tears with dirty mop water.
I sweep resentment under the living room rug only to pick-up my feelings for you with the vacuum cleaner.
My thoughts of you keep cycling through like mental dirty dishwater.
Quiet Storm comes and finds me while I clean.
Every slow jam song knows I am missing you.
Memories of you come in between radio commercial breaks.
Marvin Gaye, Sade, and Luther's lyrics taunt me.
They, like me, know you are not coming back.
My neighbors know it too.
They get extra loud.
Just another reminder of another thing
I will not be doing it with you.
Depression settles in like dust on old, forgotten picture frames.
I attempt to purge you out of my system, clean you out,
and replace you like I clean the contents of the refrigerator and pantry,
but the residue of abandonment and loneliness are reminders
I am still not over you.
I eat way too much, though I am not hungry. I am bored without you.
I am so used to you being on my lips that I substitute smoking for your kisses.
There are nights when crying is cathartic.
It drowns the silence.
I pray for you.
I pray to release you.
I pray all is well with you, without me.
I tell myself, today I will think about you less.
Things Not Talked About
No one talks about longing—
the kind that aches beneath the ribs,
the kind that whispers in quiet rooms
and keeps you up tracing the outline
of what you hoped could be.
Have you ever wanted something so deeply?
that it pulls at you like a tide—
dragging you under
and holding you together
At the same time?
No one talks about how,
even if I finally get what I want,
Love may not want me back—
not in the long way,
not in a loyal way,
not in the way that stays.
No one talks about the mirror that holds up,
how it forces you to stare at the parts of yourself
you’d rather hide—
the parts that kneel,
the parts that beg,
The parts that shrink just to be chosen.
Wanting becomes worship
so quietly
You don’t notice you’ve lain at the altar
of someone who doesn’t look at you
with reverence.
The kind of wanting that teaches you
How quickly you’ll disappear
for the smallest taste
of being wanted—
craved like dark chocolate,
melting too fast,
sweet in the moment,
leaving you emptier than before.
And here’s the part no one warns you about—
How longing can mimic love
when you’re starving for softness,
How desire can disguise itself
as destiny
When all you really wanted
was someone who didn’t hesitate.
No one talks about the moment
You realize the thing you chased
was never running toward you.
That sinking in your chest
when the truth arrives:
You weren’t chosen—
You were convenient.
A temporary warmth,
but never a place to stay.
Quiet as a tear sliding down in the dark—
Then the truth rushes in:
You kept knocking on a door
That was never meant to open.
Kept offering tenderness
to someone who mistook your softness
for surrender.
Because the truth is—
Love did not undo you.
The lie did.
The lie you kept repeating
to make their inconsistency feel holy.
You kept calling it a connection
when it was crumbs.
You kept calling it chemistry
when it was suitable.
You kept calling it “almost.”
because naming it nothing
felt like losing twice.
Heavy (insecurity)
I will tuck my worries in one by one as I do with my children.
Also, like children, my worries will have me look under beds and into dark closets looking for boogeymen, which only exist in my head.
Anxiety will cuddle next to me as husbands do.
Placing me snuggly into one arm, wrapping around, covering me like a blanket.
Not content with being my only lover, it will bring others: Restlessness and worst-case scenario. Those two will keep me up at night.
In the morning, I will look at myself through a foggy mirror full of blurry yesterdays.
I will pick myself apart one body part at a time.
Discovering a new wrinkle or another gray hair.
Evidence that my life and youth are slowly fading.
Decisions about what I eat, if I eat, are determined by a set of numbers.
My scale is both judge and jury.
I realize this burden of not fitting in, not being fit enough, good enough, or carried well
doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.
Taveesha Guyton
Taveesha Guyton is a poet and author whose work lives at the intersection of longing, healing, and emotional truth. Her writing is raw, reflective, and deeply human created for anyone who has ever felt too much and said too little. She writes to give language to the feelings people struggle to name.