name one thing you can’t find buried in the core of a black woman …
I’ll wait …
The scariest thing is the way we hate ourselves. How we are taught this. How we oblige. Where we let them burrow falsehoods into our notion of self-love and sow a name on it—watch it grow. And watch us reap. And watch us weep. No cedarwood box. Our living corpse casket enough. Mummified in misogynoir. A dark place to hide the weight of the world. They gon’ throw dirt on our name. They gon’ throw dirt on us. Each grain of soil another tale they told. Another foot dug. Deep. Deeper. Sorry. Silent. Sister. Small. Sexy. Slut. Solemn. Sick. Sadness. Sanity. Sinner. Sinking. You clawing your way out. Or trying. They keep on shoveling.
Who knew SOS meant save ourselves.