A Cornered Gurl

smooth like Norah Jones’s version of “Prototype”, you go down easy… mellow, melodic, musing– fantastic phenomenon.

elevator meeting beautiful, Black woman smelled of jasmine, lilac, coconut, and patchouli. we rode the floors, silent yet observant.

it feels like Thursday, and it’s not–short week for me dragging like the dress’s threaded hem of a Mother in a Southern Baptist Church… forever kissing red seas, while everyone ignores it.

09/22, that’s the day they say autumn will land.

A poem shared via Substack Notes on Thursday, September 17, 2026 I won’t say I’m heartbroken, because that means you broke me, but my heart aches for you. isn’t that different?

nighttime is sneaking in, eager to beat the streetlights. children gang up in the hallways of my building. the belly of the first floor swells to a size t h r e e t i m e s what it was before. soon, the neighborhood will give birth to autumn, and everyone…

Saturday, September 12, 2026.

Jernee Timid Loadholt Jernee Timid Loadholt: The Little Monster.

Figures Walking in an Urban Landscape by Mark Rothko on NGA at 46, I didn’t think I’d have to teach people about boundaries. but the younger generation is so self-absorbed, understanding that other people exist is a foreign concept to some of them.

Midsomer Murders Not such jolly times in the villages of Midsomer. a murder here. infidelity there. incest around the corner. under the rug is where the secrets are–wasting away only to be restored again.

micropoetry one-trick-ponying your way through life is what most people want to witness; it’s what they prefer. well… I don’t.

They named a tropical storm after a person who was LEAST likely to storm through anything and damage it.

AnaviArts I’ve 9 to 5’d it before, hung on the words of fast-fallen men who couldn’t keep it up if they tried… and words were my saving grace next to God breathing life into my soul over and over again.

fond of a touch I’ve never received… your hands escape me. no home for romance; libido on vacation. twenty thousand miles away from my cognizance–my well-being disturbed by every thought of you. what do you call that?

What is this?!

Micropoetry Cousins: Two of my favorite people, my cousins Akua (A-Qway-Ah) and her son, Caison.

Micropoetry customer service ain’t servicing the customer… everyone has a chip on their shoulder, chipping away at my patience. no one cares anymore. no one cares.

Locs freshly retightened and interlocked; headed to my cousin’s church.