The Poem That Was Supposed to Be 60 Seconds
Dear Pen Pals,
"A Toxic Love" was supposed to be 60 seconds.
That's important information to have before we go any further.
Sixty. Seconds.
Apparently, nobody told my pen.
This season I have been writing ridiculously long poems. Ten minutes. Eleven. Twelve. Fifteen. Eighteen.
Give me a microphone, a vocal booth and an unresolved thought and apparently we're making a limited
series.
The funniest part was watching everybody in the studio let me do it.
I'd be in the booth going on and on and ON, telling this incredibly detailed story, and through the glass I could
see Lil Ronnie, Prince, Rita, Rod-whoever happened to be there-nodding their heads. Smiling. Listening.
Nobody stopped me.
Nobody hit the talkback button and said, "Sheba, sweetheart, this was supposed to be three minutes."
Nope.
They let me finish.
I'd finally walk out of the booth feeling accomplished.
Whew. That was a GREAT story.
Then somebody would casually say:
"Yeah. We're gonna cut that into pieces."
(LOL)(LOL)(LOL)
I was never even mad.
Honestly, I appreciated that they let me get it all out first.
Because that's writing.
That's poetry.
You get the whole thing out of your body, then you figure out what the poem actually needs.
Take a piece from here. Move this over there. Lose six lines you were convinced were brilliant at 2:17 in the
morning. Put one back. Read it aloud. Realize another stanza has been saying the exact same thing as the
stanza above it, only wearing a different hat.
Cut it.
A poem is not sacred because you wrote it.
12The truth might be sacred. The first draft is not.
People who refuse to edit their poems are often holding something closer to a journal or diary entry.
There's nothing wrong with a journal entry. I write those too.
A poem, though?
A poem gets worked. Turned around. Mushed. Cut. Rebuilt. Performed. Cut again.
Poems are never really finished. Eventually somebody just takes them away from us and says:
That's enough, Sheba. The album has to come out.
MY POEMS HAVE BEEN EDITING THEMSELVES FOR YEARS
One of my signature poems is "We Are the Women."
I've performed it for years.
There are entire pieces of the original poem that haven't been in my live version for so long that I'll
occasionally go back, read the original and laugh out loud.
I wrote that?!
Not because it was bad.
My brain simply decided somewhere along the way that the poem didn't need it anymore.
Performance will do that.
Your mouth becomes an editor. Your breathing becomes an editor. An audience becomes an editor without
ever saying a word.
Your body learns where a poem drags. It learns where the laugh actually belongs. It learns which sentence
you've been fighting for six months that needs to die with dignity.
Eventually, the bones stay. The unnecessary flesh falls away.
Which brings me back to the 60-second intro that absolutely refused to be 60 seconds.
"A TOXIC LOVE" WAS ONE TAKE.
One.
That bothers me.
Anybody who knows me knows why.
I text in full sentences. Full paragraphs. Punctuation.
My friend Tamika says I occasionally send what she calls a "barrage" of text messages.
She has now limited me to three barrages per week.
Apparently, barrages do not roll over.
The account resets every Sunday.
(LOL)
13To be fair, I believe the restriction only applies to negative barrages.
Still. Rules are rules.
So imagine being a person who can hear a grammatical error from across a parking lot and then having a
one-take poem permanently pressed onto an album.
There are places in "A Toxic Love" where I hear myself pause and think:
WHY DID YOU PAUSE THERE?!
There are grammatical choices that make the English professor living somewhere in the basement of my
personality knock over furniture.
I wanted another take.
Actually, I asked to do a couple more.
Schedules didn't align.
Eventually, you have to release the art.
I know I could perform it tighter now. Faster in places. More deliberate in others. More Sheba-esque.
That's the strange thing about recording spoken word: the recording freezes a poem at one moment in its life.
Performance doesn't.
I already know that after I perform "A Toxic Love" fifty times, a hundred times, two hundred times, my brain will
begin doing what it has always done.
Throw away the bones we don't need and keep the meat.
The live version will evolve.
It should.
LIL RONNIE, MEANWHILE, LOVES THE DAMN THING.
Of course he does.
(LOL)
"A Toxic Love" is Lil Ronnie's favorite track.
He listens to it and tells me I'm being Jay-Z.
I'm sitting there thinking:
Sir.
If you only knew.
If you heard some of the other poems I consider my Jay-Z records-my classics-you'd understand that we're
just getting started.
Still, I understand what he's hearing.
There is something about that first take.
14It's imperfect. It's breathing. It's moving. It isn't overthought.
The writer in me hears the places I want to repair.
The producer in Ronnie apparently hears the thing I sometimes forget:
The feeling got there.
Maybe that's enough.
THE WHOLE ALBUM IS SITTING INSIDE THE INTRO.
That's what fascinates me now.
The title track became the thesis statement for everything that follows.
It begins almost innocently.
An office romance. A witty text worth screenshotting. A first lunch date. A phone turned face down. Eye
contact doing overtime.
Red flag?
Maybe.
Except the vibe had on good shoes.
That's how these stories can begin.
Not with ominous music.
Not with somebody announcing themselves as dangerous.
They can begin with attention.
Sweetgreen delivered because somebody knows you're counting carbs. Doors opened. Seats warmed or
cooled. A playlist curated for your mood.
"Text me when you get in."
"I'm outside."
Somebody finally seems fluent in your love language.
You're in the group chat like:
Oooooo some-body fin-ally gets it!
Then the math gets weird.
Assertive becomes aggressive.
That line matters.
Because there isn't always a giant flashing sign announcing the moment care becomes control.
Possessiveness can initially feel like protection.
Attention can become surveillance without sending a calendar invitation first.
A boundary gets interpreted as rejection.
15Your "no" somehow becomes evidence that you don't love them.
SIX MONTHS.
There is a reason the first real argument in the poem happens around six months in.
That part came from somewhere.
My ex started our first argument.
Even writing that sentence now bothers me because I had ignored every red flag leading up to it-and,
obviously, plenty after it.
I remember the first time she screamed at me.
Not raised her voice.
Screamed.
Top of her lungs.
It came out of nowhere.
I was already not feeling well. I was trying to do something she wanted done, but apparently I wasn't doing it to
her standard, or I wasn't doing it fast enough.
Then came the screaming.
I was stunned.
Blown backward by it.
I wish I could tell you I calmly recognized the behavior for what it was, gathered my things and left with the
wisdom of a woman who had learned every lesson life had previously tried to teach her.
Nope.
I screamed back.
Partly because I was angry.
Partly because I was shocked.
Partly because some ridiculous little piece of me thought I needed to demonstrate that I wasn't a punk.
That was our first argument.
I grabbed a bag and got into my Jeep.
I don't remember whether Charlie was with me.
I feel like she was.
Maybe she wasn't.
There are details from that period my brain simply doesn't give back to me anymore.
What I remember is sitting in that Jeep knowing I should leave.
Not leave the driveway and circle the block.
16Leave.
I wasn't even home. I was in another state, and something inside me knew I should point that Jeep toward
Atlanta and drive.
Then she came to the Jeep.
I am deliberately leaving out what we were arguing about because the specific task isn't important, and some
details still belong to me.
The gist of what she said was essentially:
Are you going to finish what you started or not?
Not an apology.
Not, I shouldn't have screamed at you.
Not, You're sick. Are you okay?
The request was still sitting there.
The thing still needed to be done.
I got out of my Jeep.
I finished it.
Because it was our first argument.
Because I loved her.
Because I wanted to be with her.
Because I was hoping the first time would also be the last time.
Deep in my heart, I already knew it wouldn't be.
It had come too suddenly. Too naturally. Too completely out of nowhere.
Years later, during another difficult period in our relationship, she told me something her therapist had
apparently said: narcissists can only hide themselves for four to six months.
I remember hearing that and having this incredibly quiet thought:
Well.
You hit the six-month mark right on the dot.
I didn't say it.
That silence bothers me almost as much as the original argument.
I think I was still trying to prove my worth.
Still hoping that saying the right thing-or, more dangerously, not saying the wrong thing-might heal us.
Keep us together.
Restore whatever version of us I was constantly trying to get back to.
It's strange what you'll swallow when you believe silence might save love.
17The irony is that I was being accused of narcissism while privately remembering the exact moment, six months
into our relationship, when I first saw something I knew I shouldn't ignore.
I got into the Jeep.
I almost left.
Then I got back out.
That might be one of the smallest and biggest moments in this entire album.
Because toxic relationships aren't only built from the enormous things that happen later.
They're also built from those tiny exits we don't take.
THEN COMES THE PART THAT GETS COMPLICATED.
The poem moves into violence.
Somebody gets smacked.
An iPhone gets taken.
Everybody has a different definition of what just happened.
Then comes the apology.
People apologize. They cry. You cry.
There is history. There is childhood. There is trauma. There is an ex who supposedly made them this way.
There is the promise that this has never happened before and will never happen again.
There is the declaration:
Nobody has ever loved me like you.
Then comes the shopping spree.
Apologies-with a receipt.
You forgive each other in a dressing room.
I don't spell out every detail of what "forgive" means there.
I'm a poet.
Y'all are grown.
Use context clues.
Then you get in the car.
Something is different.
The person beside you says the fight took something out of them.
They need space.
They don't see you the same.
Suddenly you're riding home in silence with the tag still on the trauma.
18That line still gets me.
Because that's how quickly human beings can try to purchase normal.
Something breaks.
We apologize.
We make love.
We buy something.
We go to dinner.
We take a trip.
We post a picture.
We tell ourselves:
See? We're okay.
Except the car is quiet.
The tag is still attached.
Nothing has actually been returned.
THEN THE CIRCUS STARTS.
Block. Unblock. Mute. Stalk. Soft launch. Hard crash.
You up?
I hate you.
Come over.
Don't touch me.
Hold me.
Leave.
Stay.
The group chat is begging you to go no contact while you're red-eyed scrolling through contacts.
At that point, I stop trying to make the relationship sound romantic.
Dopamine with a door code.
Chemistry with a court date.
Passion in a ski mask.
Funny lines.
Until they aren't.
That's the trick of this intro.
19I wanted you laughing because that's how some of us survive telling the truth.
Then I wanted the laugh to catch slightly in your throat.
THIS IS WHERE THE ALBUM BECAME BIGGER THAN ONE
RELATIONSHIP.
As I've been talking more about this album and preparing for interviews, I've finally found the language for
something I had been trying to explain since we made it:
A recent relationship was certainly the catalyst for "A Toxic Love," but the album became much bigger than
one person. It made me examine past relationships, patterns I'd repeated, emotional maturity I already
possessed but sometimes ignored, and what I've learned about myself along the way.
One relationship opened the door, but a lifetime of experience walked through it.
That's the album.
That's the thesis.
The foundation absolutely began with a recent breakup.
I won't rewrite that.
It happened.
It affected me profoundly.
It gave me a reason to start digging.
The excavation, though, uncovered much more than one person.
Once I started writing, I had to look at myself.
Past relationships.
Choices.
Patterns.
The things I tolerated.
The things other people tolerated from me.
The times I knew better.
The times emotional maturity was sitting right there in my toolbox and I apparently decided:
No thank you. Today we improvise.
(LOL)
Something else has happened since the album came out that I wasn't prepared for.
People keep finding themselves in it.
Every day.
Friends.
Strangers.
20People on different social media platforms.
DMs.
Emails.
Texts.
Phone calls.
Some days it feels like ten people.
Some days closer to twenty.
People telling me:
That's my relationship.
That's my ex.
That's my marriage.
That's what happened to me.
That's what I'm doing right now.
Then they tell me which track found them.
Track One keeps coming up because people recognize the cycle.
Not necessarily my exact details.
Theirs.
That's when you realize you've written past autobiography.
The particulars may belong to me.
The pattern doesn't.
Maybe that's why "A Toxic Love" works as the introduction.
It isn't trying to give you one biography.
It's giving you the anatomy of a cycle.
The attraction.
Attention.
Possessiveness.
Control.
Conflict.
Violence.
Apology.
Sex.
Distance.
21Confusion.
Chaos.
Withdrawal.
The attempt to leave.
The attempt to become yourself again.
That's the map for the album you're about to hear.
THEN THE POEM DOES SOMETHING IMPORTANT.
It leaves.
Not neatly.
Not with some cinematic declaration that everybody involved is healed and drinking green juice.
It hits reset.
Girls' trip.
Yoga.
Detox.
Meditation.
Archive the memories.
Post the beach at sunset.
Become Buddhist by Tuesday.
(LOL)
Then comes the line underneath the jokes:
Break / The / Cycle.
A toxic love does not have to ruin your life.
It might give you a chapter you'll never forget.
Healing can give you a story where surviving is better than becoming the headline.
That's the door into the next eleven tracks.
NOW WE WAIT.
The GRAMMY nomination announcements are November 16.
Of course, we're waiting.
Patiently-ish.
(LOL)
We're also not sitting around staring at November 16 like nothing exists between now and then.
22We love this album.
That's first.
Before campaigning.
Before ballots.
Before consideration.
Before nominations.
We made something we genuinely love.
So we're still pushing it.
Still performing it.
Still talking about it.
Still bringing it to people who may never have thought they would sit through a Spoken Word album.
If you have a media outlet-print, television, radio, podcast-we would love to talk to you.
If you have a festival, concert series or upcoming holiday event where this makes sense, bring us.
Because the live version of this album?
Whew.
Los Angeles showed us what this thing can become onstage.
Lil Ronnie plays multiple instruments. He grew up in the church, and watching him onstage with a live band
makes that musical lineage immediately obvious.
The band in L.A. named themselves The Toxic Lovers, which remains one of my favorite things to come out of
that trip.
Then there's Chanté Moore.
Everybody already knows about that voice.
I keep giving Chanté additional octaves every time I tell the story because every time she opens her mouth, I
become less convinced the known laws of vocal anatomy apply to her.
(LOL)
During our L.A. set, she received a standing ovation in the middle of the show after her octave-range solo.
Not at the end.
In the middle.
The room stopped.
Then everybody stood.
We got another standing ovation at the end.
We performed for roughly 90 minutes.
No opener.
23Just us.
Poetry.
R&B.
Live musicians.
Storytelling.
A room full of people willing to go wherever we took them.
Now we'd like to take it somewhere else.
Maybe your city.
Bring us there.
We'll even let one or two of your artists open.
We're generous like that. (LOL)
We have a pretty incredible touring schedule coming together already, and there is room to add more.
For bookings, media, festivals, concerts, holiday events or interviews:
You can also DM us on Instagram.
We'll get back to you.
Probably in full sentences.
Possibly in paragraphs.
I cannot promise it won't be a barrage.
Tamika's rules don't apply to business.
(LOL)
So start at the beginning.
Listen to the title track.
Listen to the grammatical errors I hear and you probably won't.
Listen to the pauses I wish I'd moved.
Listen to the one take Ronnie refused to let me stop judging.
Then keep going.
Because that imperfect opening poem does exactly what an introduction is supposed to do.
It tells you where we're going.
Flirtation.
Love.
24Control.
Heartbreak.
Chaos.
Accountability.
Survival.
Healing.
Art.
The whole album is sitting there.
It just took me considerably longer than 60 seconds to say it.
Welcome to "A Toxic Love."
"A Toxic Love" - Queen Sheba, Chanté Moore, and Lil Ronnie
TheQueenSheba.live/blog
Media + Bookings: atoxiclovethealbum@gmail.com
