Michaela's Musings

Earlier today, I visited an antique market in Barcelona's Old Town. As a lover of all things ancient and old, I was enamored with the gorgeous setup. Vendors selling a variety of vintage jewelry, religious statues, and fading vinyls. But something kept catching my eye. From table to table, there was a seemingly endless collection of West African and Black paraphernalia. Masks, cowrie shell belts, dolls, and statuettes big and small. And I couldn't help but wonder... What did all these old white people do to end up with these objects? This phenomenon is nothing new. Colonial powers plundering Africa, Asia, and the Americas and using their indigenous regalia for their red carpets and crown jewels. We see it in museums, and it's no different when it's collecting dust in someone's living room. Anyways, back to the market. The whole experience made me feel uneasy, but the icing on this cake was one particular object. It was some sort of cup fashioned after a Black man...

As a music lover, my tastes often fluctuate between various genres. Sometimes it changes based on the season, if I'm traveling, or the dominant experiences in my life at the time. Since I'm in Barcelona, I wanted to take the opportunity to actually document some of my recently most listened to before my taste changes again. So! Here are the top 5 songs that have been in constant rotation lately. I can't be high around you anymore - FLO From their sophomore album, the UK girl group delivers a delicious track about doomed love under the influence. The production is amazing. It's full, glossy, and reworks that classic early 2000s feel to a more modern sound. The lyrics detail the narrator's inner turmoil over a guy who's only affectionate when intoxicated. They really resonated with me due to an experience I had earlier this year. And as that hurt recently resurfaced, this song has made me realize that I deserve someone's sober love over another's drunken a...

This summer has been a slow one. My days were spent reading, watching classic films, and most of all! Painting. Ever since I was a young girl, I always enjoyed my school art classes. We experimented with perspective, oil, pastels, and clay. I loved the activity so much that my mom enrolled my siblings and I into after school sessions together every Friday. For Christmas, I was gifted seven canvases and I made it my mission to use them all. So without further ado, let me take you on a journey of my summer through art. The first painting was The Love Cow . She is surrounded by primroses. I created this piece off the high of my first kiss. Summer was in bloom and everything felt possible. He was gentle and oh so affectionate. In that moment, I understood why people dedicated songs and tomes of literature to this meeting of the lips. This piece ended up as a gift to a cousin of mine. Weary spawned after the realization I'd been ghosted. Silence and rain dominated those early summer da...

I've been thinking about Death lately. In this era of school shootings and devices that can deliver suffering from any corner of the world right to our hands, I think my generation is very acquainted with the Reaper. The first time I became acutely aware of my own mortality was the death of actor Cameron Boyce. I am the same age as him when he passed. Someone I grew up watching on TV throughout my childhood here one day, gone the next. I was struck by how quickly a life can be extinguished. The pain of burying a child and living with their absence for the rest of your life. The death of 18 year old Nolan Wells has been circulating social media and local news circuits. The college freshman went to Horn Island with his white friends for the Fourth of July. His body was finally found the following Monday and identified Tuesday.  I remember the first time I came across the story, saw the pictures of Wells with his friends on Independence Day. Seeing that they were from Mississippi, my ...

I have a soft spot for the name Danny. Don’t ask why. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I’ve always loved words and the ways they take up space. How some stuff your mouth with marbles, while others roll off the tongue smooth as sweet vermouth. Kind of like Danny. It’s a soft name. One anyone can take and make their own. There’s a little joy in the way my face scrunches up, a smile breaking across my face as I call out this sugar spun name. The way my voice goes up an octave as I draw out the final sweet syllables, denoting my affection.  Danny is the sweet cream sliding down my throat. The trail of kisses down my thighs. Bubbling giggles erupting from feather light tickles. Destined to be loved by me. XOXO, Michaela

I never liked religion. The self-flagellation and force-feeding of beliefs. But most of all? It reminds me of my relationship with my mother. Kind and giving when satisfied. But any hint of disloyalty? Any allegiance to others or yourself is met with rage. Your self-confidence—once golden and plentiful—withers away. Your reservoir of joy now dried up. Those gentle embraces become harsh words with even harsher hands. And before you know it, you’re on your knees begging. Prayers become pleas to a creator who won’t answer. And I don’t know the solution. No magical words or ritual to make her come back. No arguing with something, someone so absorbed in their own power, they can’t see the child they have forsaken. So all you can do now is get up off your knees and leave. She may be your mother, but she is not your master. XOXO, Michaela

It’s summertime, which can only mean one thing. My garden is in bloom. Maybe it’s the sunshine and gentle breeze. The lack of clouds. Being able to wear less clothes.  The petals of my pussy are unfolding, so there’s only one solution: Get plowed. May is my birth month. I’ll be turning twenty, entering a new decade of autonomy and pleasure. Making magic between my thighs. Dressed in lacy pink lingerie—marking my journey into womanhood. I've felt the gentle caress of another's lips and hope they explore both sets. June is for the daughters of the sun. Beat down by the heat of my lover's body, glistening with sweat and slickness. I hope to indulge in some loving. Sweet kisses and car sex. Once-in-a-blue-moon kind of pleasure. July is for the horny creatives. My patriotism is to sweat slick bedsheets and country music. I want to get fucked—sweetly and filthily in equal measure. My lover’s tongue caressing the folds of my pussy—cum tasting like nectar and cherry cola. He's ...

kiss of life rubbing my thumbs over silk soft hands the prickly tickle of his stubble on my cheek giggling and moaning into his kisses his mouth, red rimmed from my lipstick XOXO, Michaela

Happy May Day everyone! As spring deepens and summer slowly approaches, I wanted to write something divinely feminine and aged like a fine wine. This piece was inspired by Women Who Run with the Wolves  by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. Ode to La Loba The most unassuming saint. Patron of sunbleached bones. Some cracked, others worn down by the passage of time. Ankles, legs, knees, and necks binding together once more; Resurrected by your timeworn song. Your fanged smiles Scare off those who wish to subdue. Hunters incapable of dancing Under the silver tears of the moon. O Wild Woman,  Loba Luminoso, Your howling laughter echoes Across the golden horizon. Inviting us to follow. XOXO, Michaela

  Wake Up Call  I awoke to the gentle hum of the HVAC, Swaddling me in a cocoon of warmth. Outside, the wind howled, Rattling the window. Desperate to enter. A chill ran up my legs, Weighed down with a foreign heaviness. Sandpaper scales scraping against soft flesh. I peeked under the cashmere bedding, A frigid lump of fear formed at what I saw. Spirals of dusty earth Patterned with black diamonds Coiled comfortably around my feet. Slitted pupils staring off into an abyss I could not see. Maybe it was cold too. Searching for its own soft place. XOXO, Michaela

Hello everyone! This is my article from the spring edition of The Drum: Black Love! I'm so incredibly proud of this piece and very grateful for The Drum community for giving me a space to be a vulnerable. Hope you enjoy. Here's the link:  The Drum Spring '26 The Art of Loving "Anyone with a heart would agree. It's so easy to fall in love with me" - "So Easy (To Fall in Love)" by Olivia Dean What is love?   It’s the honeyed scent of mango wafting through the air. It’s the cool sensation of your great-great grandmother’s well-worn sapphire rings and gold pendants against your skin.  Our society limits this powerful, transcendent emotion to the narrow space between two people.  But it’s more than a feeling; it’s a state of being.  Much of my childhood was spent in solitude. Sitting alone at lunchtime. Attempts to play at recess were rebuffed. My body became a target for mockery. I thought my lack of relationships was proof that there was nothing to love...

*This is from a class discussion post O nline tradwives are not a new phenomenon. In fact, they derive from a long history of white women upholding white patriarchy through the promotion and adherence to traditional gender roles. While the alt right is characterized by its aggression and "masculine" dominance, women's role in it has been to soften it, make it seem palatable to the masses. From female slaveowners to the United Daughters of the Confederacy to the Reich Bride Schools, white women have utilized their unique position to perpetuate systems of white supremacy. Their unique position—while limiting due to their gender—still allows them to exercise considerable power as white persons. These movements depend on the presumption that women are inherently softer. This lures people into the ideology, assuming that the presence of women makes these ideologies harmless or even aspirational. The emergence of tradwives on the internet is ignorant at best, and dangerous at w...

Note: This poem was part of an assignment for my poetry class. It's inspired by and responds to a fellow classmate's poem. A Meditation on Love There is a widow,  Glossy and black. Crimson staining her delicate mouth. A callous predator Claiming her victim. But she loved him. Adored his tiny, tan frame And the smattering of freckles  Dancing across his back. Loved him so fiercely she Diced him into tiny cubes, Spooning him into her mouth. So that when their children are born, He is the first thing they know. And she, Swollen with the fruits of her love, Returns to her web. XOXO, Michaela

  All Apples Rot Here is the house, Four hundred years in the making. Built with bleached bones and Black blood. Slicked with centuries of sweat. Burn marks etched into the hardwood floor. Nothing more American than apple pie. Gooey brown sugar and rancid flesh Served up to the highest bidder. Rot wriggles from beneath, As maggots eat away at the crust. We’re sent to eat in the kitchen When company comes. Dirty dishes pile high, Rank resentment wafts through the air. But we laugh. Nothing lasts forever. A teeny dent, A tiny crack in this mythical melting pot. XOXO, Michaela

Lapse I can’t remember her laugh.  Maybe it was deep and warm,  Laced with Old Texan charm.  But then again, There’s a lot I don’t remember. Moths feast on the last photos my mind saved, Taunting me with glimpses Of honey blonde curls and bronzed skin. What was her name again? There is a woman at the end of my bed. Cloaked in white, Hazel eyes mirroring mine. Shining with guilt or relief, I can’t say. She glides towards me, Light as a feather. Soft hands cup my face And I am seven years old again. XOXO, Michaela

Letter to a Bad Boyfriend Note: This poem was published to Penn State's KLIO Link:  KLIO Spring '26 I need to take the trash out. Bile climbs to the top of my throat, The sour stench of your cruelty choking me. Flies swarm, Ready to bite. You’re comfortable now. Stuffing yourself full As rot spills over. Too complacent to leave Or be thrown out. Slimy peels and moldy meat litter the floor. Daring me, Taunting me. Because you know deep down, I am too scared to touch the mess. You promised to protect me. To keep the maggots at bay. But you let them eat away          At the rind of our love. I’ve grown tired Of that godforsaken smell. This is my life, And I don’t want you here anymore. Get the fuck out of my house. XOXO, Michaela