“I’m sorry that your man ain’t home. And I’m sorry that yours left you alone. It’s such a shame– your man is playing games. I heard you say that men are all the same. No, no, no. That’s not the truth girl, cause I got proof girl. (Oh I got proof girl) I got a man at home. Chante’s got a man at home…”

Pots become kettles.

It doesn’t always happen overnight.

It doesn’t always even happen.

But they do.

Pots can change.

Pots become kettles when we’re angry. When we’ve tried everything to let it go, but we keep getting mad all over again.

Sometimes it happens when we’re in mourning.

We grieve so long and so hard over those we’ve lost that we find ourselves slowly, surely– changed.

Sometimes pots become kettles when we’re older.

It’s a simple, organic, natural, inevitable progression.

Brick by brick by brick, we change.

Pots become kettles.

If you can help it (because I’m not always able to), don’t make the mistake of calling the kettle black.