Her Voice
Her Voice
Presented by Lesbian Memoirs
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of LM Inc.
©2010 LM Inc.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
August 2010
ISBN: 1453771336
Atlanta
Dedication
To every woman without a voice and to the women that made it possible to have one.
Foreword
She has found that she feels herself beautifully, light; transparent as subtle wind and just as invisible to her eyes and eager fingertips, what she feels inside is beauty.
Out in church choirs, working through the loud halls of Congress, she is expressing appreciation at the head of dinner tables boardrooms -- war rooms. Whispers through the womb at graduations behind lines and in front of train stations and through rails and bars from closets high atop snowy mountains embedded deeply in scorching deserts. She speaks in notes from guitars and the pattern delivered resembles bars and she steals hearts once she gets an ear. Her Voice is the most exquisite, sweetest ambrosia you’re likely to hear.
Sobbing her medicated self to sleep; talking herself into dedicated infinite victory after talking herself and everyone else down from bridges burnt long ago. She grows stronger with each challenge she faces. Louder! Cursing those who have wronged her longer, she can pull from pieces of it and pour her love into a child. She embraces rainbows as a way of life and they tame her sense of loss when there are no other colors around after she’s reigned. For who she thought she was and who she will become, watch out when her rhythm comes.
Relentless is the pursuit of love that she knows is inside…these pages. Once she finds Her Voice she’ll never sing alone again.
~Denise ‘Majestic’ Sartin
Her Voice
~Teryn (SoulChild) 1
~Bey Celeste 2
~Nik Nicholson (Sun Lyonis) 4
~Noelle St. Jean (SubmergeN2Me) 6
~Anna K. Root (Lesbincredible) 8
~Cori 9
~Anondra ‘Kat’ Williams 10
~Dee Renee Smith (ArtisticTech) 12
~T. James 13
~AP (Nisha) 15
Content
~AP (Nisha) 18
~Ifalade Ta’Shia Asanti 26
~Renee Bess 38
~BlkSwan 44
~Bracey 48
~Bey Celeste 50
~Nykieria Chaney 54
~Kelli-Lynn Daugherty 62
~Deafpoetsears 66
~Dharma 68
~Shaashawn Dial 74
~Epiphany 82
~Gem 90
~Erin George 94
~Mikaya Heart 104
~Akilahminah Kairi 106
~Nikita Lamar 110
~Robyn K. Mizelle 118
~Claudia Moss 128
~Nik Nicholson 140
~Vamecia Powell 152
~Bethsheba A. Rem 160
~Kori Ricketts 164
~Denise “Majestic” Sartin 176
~Andria Shelton 182
~Dee Renee Smith 194
~Noelle St. Jean 206
~Teryn 212
~Monique Thomas 220
~Lisa M. Visor 224
~Anondra “Kat” Williams 228
~Jay Williams 238
Her Voice
Her Voice
Her
voice
Is like a mighty wave
That rides higher than any
expectation
She is our freedom
An expression
To ride the
hurt away
Her voice
Is our healer
A deliverer
To
strengthen
In our time of need
She is our God
Her
voice
Is where we drown
Out all confusion
And find a
reason
To continue
This journey
Through poetry
Her
voice resounds
With clarity
That she is woman
Surrendering
us all
To Love
Her Voice
~Teryn (SoulChild)
Her Voice
i
say
make love to me
and take me from this suffocating
place
stand and watch me
see how i stagger to the bed
and
fall upon it
i kick the pillows to the floor
because i want
every inch of the mattress
to know what it is i feel
it knows
me already
for it holds many of my tears
i have tossed to
and fro, eve after eve
silently screaming for ease of an ache
that
trembles my bones
i have laid bare in the dark
the moonlight
peeking through
to see what woman howls wildly
i have become an
animal
caged in mild madness and hot desire
consume me with
ubiquitous kissing
until the hurt camouflages my pain
my pores
speak aloud
they say boldly....fill me
make me something
changed
unlike any likeness of before
i want to know another
me
one that could be
if i knew the savory sting of untamed
love
all of its heart and appendages
wrapped around my full bodied need
i
hold a passion
which is tethered to caution i wish set free
i
want my vulnerability eaten savagely
by an appetite for me and me
alone
i am not enough alone
hidden
laying at waste in
the dark
set sunlight on me in shroud
bring me into liberty
in
this moment i say, hear me
listen again as i say,
make love to
me
-bey
Her
Voice
solitude.
agitation,
anger, fear, desire
disappointment, wanting
waiting,
running,
escaping
got caught up
found herself
lost everyone
else
rebuilt her foundation
held against the realm of her own
expectations
she fought against mental limitations
and
surrendered sometimes too
she learns to touch herself, and
touch
to write you must.
hips rotating
for music playing
and
walking away.
wonders if she was the one who got away
maybe she
should have stayed and
maybe tomorrow she won’t mean what she’s
saying
maybe 20 years from now when her mind replays it
she’ll
wish she had said it
she’ll wish she could forget it
or
somehow be forgiven
realize she had a good life, and she won’t
regret it
breathing easy
she be kisses,
and reasoning
faith
and truth and needing
tears and bleeding
and relating
she
really hears what you’re saying
her eyes look into your soul
for
a few moments you’re one
this is whole
the sun and moon
eclipse at the touching of souls.
swallowed by the holes
we
poke and receive
we want to stay but must leave
cause the
morning will pass
and our day will be gone
forever suspended in
the evening
ink we leave them
when we can no longer breath
it
sounds.
time.
journeys, and dreams
truths and
beliefs
grass and trees
and smiles
and breeze
crushed
beneath the pen
pounded out in ink.
~Nik Nicholson (Sun Lyonis)
Her
Voice
Her voice
Music
Sings
Soul dances to
calypso
Melodies in heights
Heights beyond
vision
Levitation
Her voice
Laughs
Twitters the
spirit
Essence unbending
Grinning like a Cheshire cat
Heart
skipping beats
Like jumping rope
Her
voice
Rejuvenating
Life giving
A new day
A new start
Like
mizzling rain on a tin roof
Digesting butterflies from
cocoons
Beginnings
Her voice
Struts slowly
Pendulating
hips
In a sultry motion
Ecstasy
Wet
Drooling
Her
voice
Sex appeal
Giddy me
Giddy me
Light headed
Buckling
knees
Simply electrifying
Her voice
~Noelle St. Jean (SubmergeN2Me)
Her Voice
Her
voice whispers through the trees.
It sits on the back of my neck
with the remaining heat of her breath.
Her voice remains where she
kissed my forehead good bye.
Resounding in my frontal left side
dome, her voice.
My calling.
Her presence sounding through my
dreams.
Echoes in my bedroom, whispers on my pillow, desire in my
ear.
Her voice.
In silence, her voice, her laugh, her smile
fill the spaces.
Weak knees, goose bumps, dew drops.
Her
voice.
My addiction.
~Anna K. Root (Lesbincredible)
Her
Voice
her
voice...
gives me strength beyond belief
yet can bring me to my
knees
she makes me ache for her words
the resonating
calmness
that lights my path when all is dark
when I ask for
more than I have any right
she never balks
but gives me far
more than her words
words that wrap themselves around my
heart
like a velvet embrace
tentative and careful
while
whispering sighs of deep affection
whispering I’m going to be
all right
whispering she’s with me
even long after I stop
wanting her
~Cori
Her
Voice
was
my mommas
from first push
when rocking me to sleep
and
telling me what she wants her black girl to be
while trying to be
that and then some
failing
her voice
was granny,
aunty and them
leading by example
pathways and stumbling
blocks
showcasing what a southern black girl shouldn’t do
licks
and bruises from loving
black men
planting seeds that sprout
forth not from rain
but from her tears
crying
her
voice
was first teacher
bending hands back to apply
rulers
of restriction
teaching first lesson
on what a proper black
girl should do
in polite society in the south
black girl know
your place
back
there
her voice
first crush
best
friend
girly laughter, silky smile and big teeth
black girls
don’t do that, girl
we just friends
big teeth, silky
smile
fake
her voice
grown now
think she knows
know
what I need
black girls do that, woman
let me teach
you
show you what you been missing
licks and bruises from
loving
black
women
her voice
lightly whispering
I
like women
I love women
deepness invading
as black girl
grown, listens to her voice
at last
learning what a black girl
can be
should be
is
her voice
~Anondra ‘Kat’ Williams
Her
Voice
She’s
conception
speaking life
leaning in ears
folded on
knees
inducing my labor
her words inspire
an alpha beam
upon
the future
a cooling shadow
upon past pains
of other’s
leaning
upon my sciatic
she is my legs
i take my bedding
in
spite of the excruciating
and walk encouraged
she’s in my
ear
a word to live by
~Dee Renee Smith (ArtisticTech)
`
Her Voice
i
know that voice.......anywhere
soft/raspy/sexy/feminine/endearing
I
can feel your words tickling my eardrums
Throwing my mind into a
frenzy
Making me weak
Wanting to give you my body
endlessly
her voice
I do not surrender
As your words
wrap themselves around my thoughts
Painting a plethora of vivid
pictures
her voice
You give my dreams color
Peace in
a time of war
Hope in a time of despair
her voice
You
set me on fire
Sending my into literary convulsions
Giving me
oral O after O after O
her
voice
Observant
Detailed
Slow/Aching/Groove
Just as
you began to speak
My hands start to move
her
voice
Drips honey of inspiration from my mind
Spilling over
from the ink of my pen
her voice
Starts a revolution
between my thighs
We do not apologize.
~T.
James
Her Voice
Moves me beyond liliquoi moons
Carrying rage
From fingers
To pens
To pads
To be heard
Through the deafening cries
Of past poets
She is everything I could never be
Everything I have tried to be
A complicated simplicity
Stroking my mediocrity
And
Filling my pen with one word
Love
When the rain subsides
The birds migrate
And the wind blows
She saves broken bows
To rebuild dreams
One word
One stanza
One poem
At a time
The only voice I’ve heard
Was hers
Poetry
~AP (Nisha)
AP (Nisha)
Her Tears
Her tears
Are inaudible whispers
Hanging on to
The corners of insanity
Stoic in their stance
Waiting to freefall
From lazy lids
Of midday
Revelations
Committing suicide
To birth forth
A dream
She has seen
In black and white
Behind eyes
Specked in hazel
Gladly drowning sorrow
In the misty blues
Of strings
Streaming down
The pathway
Of her restricted
Airway
Only to inhale
A final time
For the creation
Of new life
Belonging
To her
Only
Sacrifice
Tonight
I’d like to offer the light
Of the moon
Orbiting time in
Philosophical understanding
Grant just one
Extra hour of kindness
Subtracting the grief
That stokes your spirit
In the middle of the night
Hiding behind a reflection
Belonging to a past
That doesn’t exist in this moment
Under the glow of a moon
Full with passion
This offer burns
Upon embers of hope
Squaring time
To undress your need
To beat clocks that tick
In imaginary distinctiveness
For tonight
Belongs to the curve in your spine
To lay your worries
At my feet
My only gift
I can lay
Upon your breath
Is the breeze
From the figure of a moon
In full view
Tracks of an Addict
I
am frozen by shame
Reaching deep into
The abyss of
pain
I embrace readily
Praying to be
swallowed
Whole
By a hole
The size of
My
emptiness
Because
My intentions
Are
questionable
To no one
But me
Ready to
head home
Seek comfort in the familiar
Bosom of
love
But before I get there
Pit stops
Of
my past
Are beckoning me
From the shadows
On
the wall
That haunt me
In the sleepless
Hours
of the
Night
Filled with loneliness
For
something familiar
In the form
Of
self-destruction
My honesty is honestly
A conformed
copy
Of a lie
To no one
But
myself
Thinking
I have moved on
Yet
I
backstroke
Into this place
I know
Too
well
Inhaling my insecurities
On daily binges
Of
insanity
Where
I run
Circles around
squares
With razor edges
Hiding from the past
I
buried
Years ago
In an abandoned
Grave of
secrets
And today
She calls me
Dangling my
needs in front of me
Tying my dreams behind her back
Laying
herself on the mirror
To reflect my need
To inflict
pain upon myself
Because forgiveness
Is lost
somewhere between the lines
I cross
And
The
cross I bear
Where I’m From
Born
down by a river
Where even in lies
Truth
witnessed
Could not be protested
Conceived in
blinding light
Birthed under the wings
Of
darkness
With pen in hand
Tragedy in soul
Mania
in mind
And
A missing heart
I was
fucked
Before embryo
Had its chance to
implant
Dreams of prosperity
Into a bouncy baby
girl
Eyes turning blind
To backseat fondling
In
rearview mirrors
Switching lanes
A place
where
Southern comfort
Collided with West Coast
dreams
Merging
Down home ethics
With big
city lies
A quaint single family home
Hidden in the
hills of California
Where the black middle class had
status
Creating perfectly broken landscapes
From
her heart
To his penis
That’s where I’m
from
I’m from a place
Where home
Has
been
Any woman
Who opens her legs
Freely
to me
Because I
I was searching for the woman
She
could never be
The woman I needed to claim
In
me
I’m from dark alleys
Chemically altered
minds
Microscopic faith
Tortured limbs
Addictive
adaptation
And
Cornfields that only exist
In
my prefrontal cortex
I’m from a place
I’ll
never know
Except
In my imagination
Ifalade Ta’Shia Asanti
America Don’t Know True Love
for pepper
america
don’t know true love
let me introduce you
love
is the smile on her lips
that breathes life back into my Blackness
when I’m feeling like it would be easier
to be white today
love
is her faith in my poetry
long before it ever appeared in Essence
Magazine
love
is the rhythm she drummed back into my heart
when my heart was
begging God to let it stop and rest
love is the ten million times
she took my hand
in the darkness that they left me in
and
guided me back to myself
love is the living room she sacrificed
so that i could build a railroad in the form of a shrine
so that we could get to Africa from my basement
i
said america don’t know love
it couldn’t
if
america knew love
it could see the dozens of graves i dug for
myself
the midnights she uncovered me
and turned your dirt into
medicine to cleanse my spirit with
if america knew love
it would see all the men she died for so they could be reborn again
if
America knew true love it wouldn’t condemn her
it would
demonize the fathers
that tried to imprison her right to grow up
and be
and
america would count all the days she called in sick
just cuz she
knew one of its soldiers/me/i needed see her an extra hour
cuz if
i couldn’t smell her skin/i might give up on the land of the free
become an ancestor before my time
and if i wrote a thousand poems in one hour i couldn’t poetize
or realize the sacrifices she’s offered to the altar of my human condition
america,
i tell you, you can’t know true love
if you did, the vibration
of her hours upon hours of chanting
nam-myoho-renge-kyo
would’ve moved america to engage in world peace instead of financing this war against brown people, native people, asian people, latino people, jewish people
hell, it’s a war against all her people
cuz america don’t know love!
love
can’t be found on the rotting pages of a constitution written by
colonized pens
love can’t be defined by the sons of former slave
owners who do vodou in the basement of yale university & preach
morality on CNN
love can’t be recreated by men that seek to
rewind history and
reincarnate the next third world holocaust
love
ain’t written on the pages of a religion that america stole from
egypt and plagiarized for the rule of a patriarchal society
america’s
true love is here
right here
standing before you on so-called
sinner’s feet
america’s
love is in between morning kisses and good night hugs
between
women or men or any two humyns
america’s
love is in me and my mate’s longevity
on the waves of our
laughter
dancing on the ocean of our joy
in the memories and
full bellies of our grandchildren
america’s
love was born the day of our commitment ceremony
in the sweat
lodge
on the winds of oya/the womb of oshun
in the wisdom of
the buddhas
we are the sanctity of marriage
indigenous and pure
completely undeniable
and
today i crown her with the holiest words that a pen could
conjure
before the sacred audience of the poet
i invoke the
silence of zora neale hurston to speak now from my lips
zora, who
loved dozens of women
and was never photographed with one
i
call forth the power of the duality of bessie smith
bessie: the
jazz queen who refused to sing in a skirt
i
spit this libation for bayard rustin
the gay man that formed the
footsteps for the march on montgomery
and all the children who
hide their love
because they are afraid america will see it
on
this day i say to the earth
i love her
and
that what we have
is one of the truest loves
that god ever
made
in america
Sakia’s Gun
he knows not of her headstone
he knows not of her headstone
he knows not of her headstone
her short story
novel long in dreams
sentences of fire burning the throats of men who died when they were boys festering in a soldier’s body
i speak of wars between black skin
ogun’s machete at his fallen lover’s throat
his love stolen
his manhood sleeping
awaken on a woman’s lips
that he will never own
i am sakia’s gun
shooting sacrilegious words into the ozone
invoking the sarcophagus of audre lorde
from the streets of new jersey
into every american home
i am sakia’s gun
i aim words
make reality explode like bullets
i exhale poetic smoke signals
from literary inferno
i play jun-jun with poems
call down ancestral memories to initiate the earth of human trees
i sacrifice my sentences
to the roots of racism
kill the father of discrimination
masquerading as a preacher
a pastor of hate
wearing holy clothes
i am sakia’s gun
firing poems at random targets
lodging my shrapnel in open ears
dressing the graves of sakia, wanda and matthew
in the innocence of their silenced tongues
What They Told Us
What they told us, we ain’t never been told, what we hear, we ain’t never heard, what we seen, we ain’t never saw—but it is our reality.
I ain’t never been prayed for
like she prayed for me that night
the way she saw me
like only seers do
like only grandmama’s can
grandmama’s who sit on creaky, unpainted porches
reading the word
grandmama’s who be seeing
—she told my story, told it like she’d been watching my life from the sky.
she said:
u one of dem lovers of life/life without corners
life that come in circles/ u from a holy tribe of two spirited peoples/
two souls cast into one body/u been chosen for tribulation/and rivers often too wide to cross
/but the angels done showed you how to make the water part/make the rain come down during dry summers/
taught you to squeeze prayers in between so-called sins/to remain confused about the need for your redemption/your life will be a catalyst for marches and movements/
and your story/your story ain’t gon’ never end
she kept praying/then she lay hands on me/she said:
your ase has been called forth by God and the ancestors/so live chile!/live!/she said:
you have the right soul/you love like God loves/without walls/you bring rainbows into the world/
you born from the maa-ti tribe/where women take wives/men paint their faces like massai warriors and zulu kings/
your spirit no less divine/let no one fool you chile’/you come from God
she lifted my chin/aimed my eyes toward the stars—she said:
live your story only/never become the sentences of others/don’t become their vision of perfection/or okayness/
don’t be your mama or daddy/your brother or sister/find your lines in the book of life/
turn your pages only when you done reading/take your book off the shelf and read it for the world
I was crying now/and she could see me/seeping through the mask I had hid behind for far too long
She said:
you gon’ have a wife with the stamina of jobe/cain’t no man put up witchoo/you got fire in your blood/
revolutionary ancestors done their petitions on your fingertips/you must write them/you oshun mama/shango daddy/u reborn in the ocean of existence/yemoja has given you a new name
Then she kissed me/God kissed me/right there in front of Jesus and everybody
I saw the light shining from her third eye/and in that moment/I knew god had forgave me/ so I forgave her too
She took my energy in her hand/pressed her mountains up against mine/let my hands ride the dips and waves of her body, then said:
What they told you, you ain’t never been told, what they showed you, you ain’t never been shown, what you saw, forget you seen it—create your own reality
Be divine in the garden of god/love like your heart ain’t never been cold/don’t whisper your adoration for her/silence is only a stoplight for pain/the green gon’ come one day/and dance with her in public/dance silly and off beat/slow drag/be just like them/I don’ told you before/you are just like them
And I felt a river burst inside of me/words/curses/hate/erupted like flames at a summer campfire/I heard the water smothered its heat/and my soul marinated in the power of her words/I had a new book/with a spiritual title/a whole life publisher/a healed editor/enlightened readers/and she/my God/was number one on the list of my true friends
What they told me, I ain’t never been told/what they showed me, I ain’t never been showed, what I saw, I forgot I ever seen it—I have a whole new reality
Possessed By a Poem for My Sister Sakia Gunn
for u who preach from vines cut at the roots
u who covet your sins in a cloak of rotting truth
u who dance on streets filled with sakia’s shadows
i’m invoking audre’s blood with the sword of zora battles
listen
you can’t hide me no more
nor vandalize my voice on the foam of your sexual shore
my lines ride the tide of free-them-all, not just one
i got bush medicine on my tongue
i’m pushing poetic battaram
medicating epileptic ear drums in the soup of here i am
and you know what?
i’ve been here before
i drink from the calabash of priestesses
pour this verbal ase from the conch shells of native sons
cook herbs between the thighs of Oya’s hips
i speak the fantasies of nuns
these words her hurricane
death winds of colonic tears
socio-political Tsunami
come to cleanse you of your bull-shhhhhh
i can’t stop playing the cords of this poem
i’m possessed by the words and the tone
Conga, Djembe, Jun-jun, horn
vibrating in my throat
maybe the spirits will leave me if I hummmmmmm
listen
to the secrets that you gave birth to
the tomboy daughters
the easy-bake oven sons
your African children
you left to die from the blast of a homophobic gun
for u who preach from vines cut at the roots
u who covet your sins in a cloak of rotting truth
u who dance on streets filled with angie zapata’s shadows
i shake the poetic rattle while i hummmmmmmm.....
Renee Bess
CAN I SIMPLY BE?
(For all the women whose ethnicity, age, size, and lesbian identity are questioned by false lovers)
Can I be me,
simply me,
without the swagger, the slang, the attitude at half mast?
Can I be me?
Can I speak the way I do,
with clipped words
spelled correctly, pre-edited
before they come tumbling out?
Can I be my
middle-of-the-spectrum color
without judgmental commentary?
May I arrive with wiry white curls entwined with darker ones,
‘cause I refuse to dip my head into the dye bowl?
And what if I’m one size bigger than I was
three hundred sixty-five days ago?
Will that be one more reason to enter my name on
your non-qualifiers list?
Neither street butch nor satin sheet femme,
But if I can’t be me,
simply me,
You and I cannot be
we.
NOTE FOUND ON THE FLOOR
Memo to those who have inquired:
She doesn’t write poems any more.
Words are simply words…
no more, no less.
They neither slow nor speed the voyage to anger’s end,
Soft or harsh, they fail to cushion the fall.
In case you’re asking,
she’s not going to write any more poems.
She’s put down her pen,
in favor of living gracefully.
Her sleep is dreamless,
and the path to her heart is dense with weeds.
No gardener on call?
No matter.
The tangled growth will do for now, because
She doesn’t write poems any longer.
POETRY…
Is the sound my pen makes
As my heart explodes and spills onto paper;
Or, in time, as it mends and beats healthily
Once again.
WORDS WITHOUT END, AMEN
Words never end.
One poem calls for the next.
A short story begs to be longer.
Songs cry out for more lyrics.
A novel demands a sequel;
as its characters plead to live between other covers.
Love letters, resumes, thank you notes, shopping lists
All demand to continue.
Facebook/twitter/LM posts
spin out of control, never ending,
just extending their writers’ keystrokes.
Serial emails, unravel like balls of yarn.
They hit “reply” so often,
you can’t recall their beginning.
Words never end.
They spill from my eyes and trickle down my cheek,
leaving a trail,
like the last instant message.
The one I won’t answer
for fear you won’t either.
BlkSwan
Tell-A-Vision
im gana tell you a vision...
rich in color
deep in roots
created by us for us
so you won’t find it on NBC or Fox or the CW (bless them they think they’re helping)
this is full bodied, thick lipped and curvy black dramas
mysteries, comedies, with no Murder Death Kills
reciprocal black on black love
two parent homes or at least two parents participating
my people will hunger no more for positive images
reflecting themselves
no slackers
everybody who’s able got a job or at least trying to find one
everybody working legitimately for their ends
that’s where the vision begins
no images of God calling his colored children home
using semi automatic gun shot wounds for emphasis
no urban soldiers fighting urban wars then lying in coffins
with gang bandannas tied around their heads and money in their fist
bangin to the day they died
the sound track would be smooth easy jazz drippin, R&B ballads
hip hop with thundering bass drums and powerful vocals
boiled down to homemade gumbo
we gana makem makem think to this
something for all of us to enjoy
im talking folklore
story tellin
image strokin visions
this Tell-A-Vison will be
televised
I Am Fire
I
am fire
Without her body to warm
Poet without muse
Makes me
obtuse
I cannot summons her by name
Because I don’t know
it
But I do have my own horn to blow
So imma blow it
Hoping
that she will hear my call
And she’ll sing along like
“This
here’s my song”
I swear
I want her with my flame
Bracey
Darkness
I stand in the darkness