she don’t whisper.
she don’t tiptoe.
she don’t wait for a man to call her back.
she lives loud.
she laughs with her mouth wide open.
she spills out her soul in brass notes and bounce beats.
and so should you.
this is the phase where your hips remember who they belong to.
this is the chapter where you flirt with chaos.
where your name is only what you say it is.
a phase where pleasure don’t need a permission slip.
a phase that ain’t shameful
it’s sacred.
you ain’t just learning yourself in peace anymore.
you’re learning yourself in passion.
in public.
in heat.
in rooms that echo your laughter and know your scent.
so flash your smile.
or your titties.
or both.
life ain’t always meant to be lived safe.
sometimes, baby,
the mess is the miracle.
I stopped in my tracks. My heart did something funny. It was like the city had been watching me the whole time. Like the typewriter knew my soul. Like this wild, hot, beautiful trip wasn’t just a vacation, but it was a rebirth.
I folded the poem and tucked it into my purse with the care of a woman who had just been handed the blueprint to her next chapter. Maison had no idea who he was messing with. The Heaux Phase Lyrix had officially entered the chat.
Back at the hotel, I sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, with one of the plush white robes hanging off my shoulders. My speaker sat on the counter blasting ‘Choppa Style’ and baby when I tell you I felt like I had been born in the wrong zip code.
It was something about Louisiana music. The way it pulsed. The way it made you feel like you were the baddest bitch in the room and a little bit untouchable. The bounce. The horns. The cocky-ass chants and the deep-ass bass. Boosie, Juvenile, Big Freedia, Webbie, Lil Wayne, Kevin Gates, Master P, NBA YoungBoy—every last one of them gave you a different flavor of Louisiana.
They didn’t just make music. They made moods. Every song felt like a celebration of self, even if it was ratchet or gritty. It was sexy and rowdy and rebellious. It made you move even when you swore you were just gonna chill. That was the thing I loved about New Orleans the most, they celebrated music like it was a birthright. They didn’t just listen to it, they lived in it.
I was mid-body roll, lip-synching “Choppa Style, Choppa Choppa Choppa Style,” when I heard a knock at the door. I looked at the clock.
