Sunday Morning

On a perfect Sunday morning

while our tangled bodies drift in quiet slumber

the gentle rays of the early summer sun

reach through the glass of our un-curtained window

to wake us with its warmth

my cheek against your chest

your fingers trace circles on my arm and back

time passes as it always does

but we have never been so still

on a perfect Sunday morning


I Don’t Know


as I amble down the concrete path

the pinkish sky fading into the abyss

a feeling of unexpected calmness washes over me

and I’ve never felt more unsure.

I can hear the distinct sounds

of unsuppressed laughter and celebratory chants

floating along the cool evening breeze

like a distant echo of a dream returned.

but I can’t join in.

my emotions are too conflicted to simply feel one.

instead, I enjoy the last few moments

in this little bubble

wandering into my favourite building

sneaking up to the fifteenth floor

and pressing my hands and face against the cool glass

taking in the perfect view of the capital city

I’m not ready to leave yet.

or maybe I’m just scared

of being alone and uninspired

and I’d rather stay here forever

then find out what happens after this

because the truth is

I don’t know.

I don’t know what will happen.

it seems like the entire world is watching

waiting for me to make a choice

and I’m not sure I’ll make the right one.

if this is adulthood

then I am not equipped.

I Dream of You

Sometimes you’ll come to me

during the dark hours of the night.

You’ll vanish as quickly as you appear

and all I catch are glimpses of you

just a piece or part

your lips, your arms

Sometimes I see nothing at all

but I still feel your presence

encircling me, consuming me

and all I want is more

more of you

not just in dream, intangible

but here, beside me, always.

I dream of you

more than I dream of anything else

so much that I think you’re real

and waiting just for me.

I dream of you

and only you.

This Is Twenty-Three

It’s a funny age,


or perhaps funny isn’t the right word.

and maybe my struggle to find the right word

is exactly what I’m trying to say after all.

and I’ll spend the next hour or so,

writing and rewriting this poem,

trying out different words and phrases,

but ultimately failing to get the words just right,

when all I wanted to say is I don’t know how to be 23.

22 MEMORIES (2015-2016)

As I spend the last few hours being 22 I have to reflect on the last year and note the most memorable things that have happened to me. Being 22 isn’t as wonderful and carefree as Taylor Swift makes it seem. Rather, this last year has shown me that maybe with a little extra guidance and patience I can actually do this thing called adulting. Who knew?

Anyway, here are my 22 memories!

  1. Mar 16: Naturally turning 22 was a big moment. But I also got a facial and went shopping that night. A nice way to start my 22nd year.
  2. Apr 3: Going to see Fast & Furious 7 with my best friends. Hilarious, exciting, and The Rock. That is all.
  3. May 8: Going to the opening night of Tulip Festival with my best friends. Beautiful and magical.
  4. Jun 14: Attending my best friends’ graduation ceremony. It was so special and I’m so proud of them.
  5. Jul 24-26: Going to Montreal for the first time. ‘Twas most amazing! #bucketlist
  6. Aug 15: Papa’s Funeral
  7. Aug 28: Finished my last CO-OP placement
  8. Aug 30: Almost solved the Urban Capers Case at The ROM!
  9. Sept 5-12: My last 101 week at university. Awesome and exhausting and sad it’s over.
  10. Oct 3: Went to my last school football game. It was so intense!
  11. Oct 11-12: Celebrated Thanksgiving with my family and then Friendsgiving with my besties!
  12. Nov 20: Adele. That is all.
  13. Nov 24: First snowfall in the city. Almost cried and slipped…and then almost cried again.
  14. Nov 27: Got my YBT book in the mail. #OfficiallyPublished!
  15. Dec 20: Spent the morning at the Toronto Christmas Market and afternoon watching Ross Petty’s Peter Pan in Wonderland.
  16. Dec 25: I was sick for Xmas but it was still pretty great. So blessed.
  17. Dec 30: Woke up super early to pick my best friend up at the airport! #reunited
  18. Dec 30: Purchased the domain for by brand new fashion Blog! #fashionblogger
  19. Jan 30: attended a Fashion Show with some of my friends and I looked awesome!
  20. Jan 31: First post on my blog!
  21. Feb 12: Registered to graduate. Bachelor of Arts degree: check!
  22. Feb 17: Meeting my first second cousin and he is absolutely adorable!

What can I say? I am so blessed. I hope my 23rd year is even better–maybe it could be my best year yet!


A Portrait of The Artist As a Young Black Girl (V)


At times she felt the chilling emptiness,

Of a life destined to live without another,

Though she was free, she often ached,

To have a string or two to hold her.

A something or someone to keep her tethered,

When she feared she’d float away.

In her dreams, sometimes,

The abyss would call to her, inviting,

And then, sometimes, it was too wide a circle,

And she yearned for something smaller.

She belonged to no one, not anymore.

She once wrote letters to her future lover,

Dreaming of blissful domesticity, in a suburban home,

In one of the little towns of her youth,

 Years and years ago.

Her whole life, a perpetuating circle,

A cycle of want and more want,

Of desire and fulfillment,

Her wedding ring, her smiling face, her belly round,

Her child’s eyes, her happy tears, her ticking clock,

From sunrise, to sunset, a perfect circle.

But it was not to be, reality would intervene,

Realness would pop the bubble of fancy,

A life of spinsterhood and art left instead,

That was to be her fate.

In some ways, she always knew,

That it would be just her,

So she loved herself more than anyone else,

And that would be her grand love affair.

Her only plan for the future,

Was to live a full and simple life,

To mark a place in the earth and name home,

To leave behind a trail of little truths,

Or maybe just change the world.

To tell them all her story,

About the Artist As a Young Black Girl.

A Portrait of The Artist As a Young Black Girl (IV)


What’s in a name?

One’s history, perhaps.

A lost history,

A Hebrew name given to the black girl’s ancestor,

By some Englishmen who owned him,

And before that, nothing.

What’s in a name?

Her history, perhaps.

Two Hebrew names given to the young black girl

With a hyphen in between,

One from her mother’s family, one from her father’s.

And though she had two last names, she only wanted one.

At first, she pretended,

That the second name didn’t exist,

Just an invisible name from a forgotten past.

But soon that wasn’t enough.

So whenever she had the chance,

She forgot to add her second name,

So she was just Davis,

And after that, nothing.

What’s in a name?

Her story, perhaps.

An Irish name given to the young black girl,

Not because she was brave,

but because her mama liked the name.

She changed the ‘C’ to a ‘K’ then added an extra ‘y’

because she loved the letter so.

And though the name never fit quite right,

That was the name she kept, for now.

What’s in a name?

A herstory, perhaps.

A name given to herself at seventeen.

Because she didn’t have a home.

So Chaka Rose became her name,

And the name became her home.

Chaka seemed strong, and when said softly,

Sounded like the gentle whispers of a wind goddess.

And Rose reminded her of the earth, of beauty, and of love.

She became Chaka Rose, because no one else could be.

A name, an alter ego, for a young black girl.