The Belly of Black Love

Excerpt from The Fault Line Series (Book Two)

This piece confronts inherited trauma and intimacy across time. It refuses comfort. Competing voices stand without reconciliation, revealing how grief, desire, and responsibility reverberate across generations of Black love.

It is a self‑contained excerpt from Book Two of The Fault Line Series. The scene is set in the protagonist Dr. Marcus Kane’s Cultural Anthropology lecture hall. Certain plot‑revealing details have been intentionally removed.

The excerpt Legacy (1861) is deliberately unflinching, serving as a historical echo that shapes the emotional core of the present‑day responses that follow. Together, the sections create a layered conversation about power, survival, longing, and the cost of being unseen.

This is The Belly of Black Love.

The lecture hall buzzed with low chatter. On the screen appeared an excerpt from a screenplay titled Legacy (1861), displayed in large font for all to see. The scene was set in a cramped slave cabin. It had already been distributed in the class reading, and two groups had prepared open letters in response.

*The screen flickered, and the past stepped forward.*

Legacy (1861)

HIM: Say something… I just want to hear… anything… just talk to me.

HER: And say what? That I still smell of that old hog?

That I can still feel him inside me?

(tone tainted with scorn)

It was bad enough when he came at night; at least I could keep my dignity.

But you stood there and watched! What kinda man —

HIM: (defensive)

What kinda man—what? You looked like you wanted it, like you his woman.

You said it: he comes at night, and you kept quiet about it!

HER: (angry, raised voice)

Shut your goddamn mouth, you son of a bitch! You know better.

(then, incredulous)

I hid it? Everyone talk. They tease you, and I know that you knew.

She jabs her fingers into his chest.

HER:(now calmer)

And if I told you, what would you do? Nothing.

He did it in front of your face, and you did nothing.

Her voice lowers, thick with scorn and disappointment.

HER: You let him sell our son… and now he has his way with your woman

in front of—

Her voice cracks. She forces herself steady.

HER: (raised, steadier)

I don’t want to see them tears! They don’t impress me, you hear me!

HIM: (ashamed, pleading)

I’m sorry, Neta. I— I tried… but I couldn’t do nothing.

HER: You could’ve done plenty. If you weren’t a coward.

HIM: But he’d kill me, and you know that.

HER: (shouting)

Then die! Fucking die trying to hang on to your manhood!

I’d have more respect for you then!

(beat)

You are a coward… and I hate you.

*And the ripples continue.*

Open Letter:

Dear Black Men,

Saying I hate you feels like retribution. It satisfies my pride but leaves my heart hollow every time I speak it.

I yearn for your affection.

I want to be your priority; I want you to value me, to protect me.

I’ve taught myself to see my own value, to respect and love myself. Yet my story still feels unfinished.

I say I don’t need you,

but I still need you to choose me.

I want to let you lead,

but I don’t trust you to protect me.

Letting go and letting you feels like freefall, not surrender.

You’ve made it clear that in your eyes I hold no value. Praising only those of us you imagine to be flawless, your ideal: ambiguously beautiful, emotionless, untouched by a past, never having made a mistake. Wanting nothing from you, not even your commitment.
A unicorn.

Do you hold others to the same standards?

For you, it is okay to love Emma simply because she’s your person, and that alone is enough for you to forfeit your requirements of perfection.

In your eyes, she is intrinsically valuable.

Can you offer me even a fraction of that grace?

If I am intrinsically flawed, then everything that comes from me is also flawed.

How can you claim wholeness when the vessel that created you is the one you call broken?

When you dream of the life you desire, your future, do those dreams include me?

Or would I sully your dream?

Would you feel accomplished and respected with me by your side?

When you consider beauty are your standards closer to me or to someone else?

Do you think I am unworthy of your love?

I am left with your lust; the only time I feel seen by you.

The truth I hate to admit is…your rejection of me cuts deep, like the open wounds turned inward.

Pain, knowing I may never be chosen by you.

*And on the other side of that ache, another voice rises.*

Open Letter (Part two)

Dear Black Women,

You acknowledge our struggle but never recognize it.

You hold me to the standard of a made man, demanding that I rise and compete for your attention as if I were an uninterrupted man.

Cut by the same sword, but our wounds are shaped differently. You feel unseen in love; I just feel unseen.

Your longing for protection is real, but my fear is constant.

Born already diminished, treated like a perpetual boy, having to remember my place lest I be forced back into it.

I’m not asking you to be my peace,
but it hurts that you are not my sanctuary.

Being with you is like tearing open stitches on an old wound.
A constant battle, stripping myself bare just to earn your trust, just to taste your love.

With me, you stay guarded, giving only when you feel you’ve gained.

And the price of your love is steep.
I must provide, not for our future, but for your wants and your comfort.

For your love, I must never hold you accountable.
I must never lead.
For your love, I must submit.

You’ve reduced my process of growth to inadequacy.

Being risk‑averse and reliable shouldn’t disqualify me from your love or your respect.

But you only commit to the image, not the man.

Defeated, worn thin from chasing your love…now the rules have changed, or maybe I have.

Truth is, I am tired of auditioning for your version of manhood. But if I pause, if I fall behind…I disappear.

There are days I wonder if you would love me at all if I needed you.

Choosing you feels like rejecting myself, my struggle, my scars, my unfinished becoming.

I know you ache to be chosen, but understand, I ache to be recognized as a man before I am anything else.

If you enjoy writing that challenges you to think, work that is bold and honest, then consider purchasing my novel Distortion: Book One of the Fault Line Series, releasing March 1, 2026. Now available for pre‑order. DISTORTION: A Speculative Psychological Thriller