Poetry

Black girl, get yo ass up: Poetry and freedom.

                 

She lay on the floor, eyes red from crying.

Her month long box braids going each and every way.

Some have gotten loose, she thought. 

New growth. 

Her cheekbones became heavy, her breast weren’t quite as perky, double DD cups, being free as they pleased as she lay there. 

She thought of work earlier and how her anxiety caused her a lot of mishap, or how angry she had been throughout the day. 

Probably because she hadn’t meditated, or prayed. 

She thought about the news and how a few  celebrities have recently died of suicide this week alone. 

She shook her head, at the thought of it.

Black children don’t get this much attention when it comes to shit like that *shrugs* 

Kate Spade, white woman, rich..

“People gonna look into mental health now” 

Like they did opioid addiction once it hit the white folk. 

 She thought about how she thought of killing her self more times than not.  

She thought of ways to end the internal pain.

Black girls don’t think like that, for they grow to be strong Black women, right ? 

She got tired of crying herself to sleep, longing to be loved by the guy she opened her legs to for sanity, for comfort, for security.. for self. 

Black girl don’t you be like that.. 

Modern day Jezebel, knowing good and damn well you weren’t raised like that.

Her home town was that of mystery.

She could now only feel the presence of her great grandmother roaming through out the city. 

Black girl don’t be superstitious like that. 

Be religious, don’t dare be too spiritual. 

She randomly thought of Alice Walker and how she would understand. 

She thought of how she would rather light some incense, while playing some smooth bops like ‘Appletree’ by Badu, or The Fugees to hear Lauryn hill spit, or how she would rather have her feet in the grass somewhere, as the sun touched her skin, would rather pray during yoga than sit in a three to four hour church service.

She was excited and afraid of the next chapter to come. 

Life..

She’s been screaming inside closed closets for some time now.

Suffocating..

Black girls weren’t meant to breathe. 

Or dream.

Let alone succeed.

So what she trying for ? 

Why God put so much pressure on her for ? 

Wanna let go , but she can’t. 

Hanging on to life, like ancestors hung from trees. 

Strange like fruit. 

Sweet and raw. . 

It seems that, the very  LAST breath, that she continues to breathe, has been the very LAST that her ancestors took, and so she has no choice but to 

Exhale, and inhale , and exhale..

And repeat.

She knows the breaths are whispers from her great grandmother.

She smiles and then 

She thinks..

Black girl, get yo ass up. 

And she proceeds to do so. 

2 thoughts on “Black girl, get yo ass up: Poetry and freedom.

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