i should be in bed, but instead i'm doing this

late night racing brain + king benito + late night scribbles

I should be in bed, but instead, I’m up doing this. The way my spicy brain works, sometimes the thoughts are moving quickly, and I’m trying to keep up with all of them, but then they go on a side quest, and now I’m on this meandering trail of brain activity that could possibly be leading me somewhere, but the paths keep crossing over each other in weird spaces, and I haven’t been able to figure out how they are all connected, and so here we are.

hello.

King Benito!

I’m not really a football watcher, but I turned the Super Bowl on earlier so I could see Bad Bunny do his thing.

I felt a lot of emotions watching his performance. There was so much meaning in the imagery and the performance itself, I’m probably going to need to watch it more times so I can really digest it all.

I’m glad he was the Super Bowl performer, and I’m glad he made it ethnic as fuck.

King Benito. He did that shit.

late night scribbles

There are days I wake up so in love with this nigga, I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

I won’t text him or call him, of course. I won’t email.

That’s not how the game is played. Or, at least, that’s not how my pride is set up.

Is love really stronger than pride, or did Sade die sing us a beautiful lie?

I find myself poring over every memory. Replaying every conversation. Looking at every intimate picture he sent me. Dissecting every saved text message, searching for meanings new and old.

Is it live, or is it Memorex? Is it love, or is it limerance?

I honestly can’t tell you because I don’t know, but even if I did know, I couldn’t honestly tell you.

I want to believe the beautiful lie.

We hide from the truth because the blur of lies we’ve told ourselves is much more comforting.

When I say “we,” I mean me.

This nigga is like a stain in my brain that I can’t wash out, no matter how hard I try.

Sometimes I’m chasing the memories. Sometimes they are chasing me.

I can still feel his lips against mine. His fingers tangled in my hair. His hand wrapped around my throat. The weight of him on top of me. The things he said in my ear. The secrets he whispered into my mouth. His smell.

I see his words all around me. In the wild. In my memories. There’s always something there, even if I want to forget it.

Even if I want to forget him.

We’re supposed to pretend we don’t care. Like it doesn’t bother us. Like the yearning isn’t there.

Pimps aren’t supposed to get caught up.

Players aren’t supposed to get played.

It’s OK to admit when you’ve been a sucka for love ass nigga.

I’ve been a sucka for love ass nigga.

I’ve been a sucka for love over this nigga.

Is there a way to hold it all inside and still get over it?

Do I want to hold it all inside while I get over it?

Do I want to get over it?

Do I want to hold it all inside?

It all comes back around.

He always comes back around.

We always come back around.

There are days I wake up so in love with this nigga, I feel like I can’t breathe.

But I’m a G, and this, too, shall pass.