“I was always apprehensious of the term ‘strong black woman’ because it dehumanizes us and makes it seem like we don’t hurt” ~ Taraji P. Henson

We are the backbone of the beauty which flows through a diaspora

Mental health, a term sung only to hushed ears, haunts black people with no discretion. 

During the day, we are suffocated by subliminal gestures, then shrouded in critique by our predecessors in the face of vulnerability.

Black boy tears are merely dried by arid indifference as our columns of little black girls hold the fort of rotten planks.

Sensationalized by self-harm and the homicidal nature of tradition, the fine lines we tread sizzle and overheat, burning our toes as we order ourselves to keep moving. 

I could stare into a mirror and detest everything my audience sees, though I am told that my stage presence glimmers.

Today my people told me to kneel over a bleeding shadow.

And yesterday,

And years before that.

My knees are scraped but no light billows before me.

Having spoken soliloquies into clasped hands and beads

I now remain in a bed of vendettas with a stitched smile,

intimidated by the art of un-knowing me. 

With love,

A sister.