What does it mean to be a “strong black woman”?

Seriously?

A label, I didn’t pin for myself, but society has placed on me.

I didn’t choose to be cold, to be difficult.

I didn’t choose to be cross.

I didn’t choose to reason and bargen and settle for less than my worth.

I work, I decide what’s best for my family and I. I manage and manipulate, I stand firm in my cause for the people who need voices.

Then, I find a corner for me to cry in.

Alone

In this corner there is no support

No one to listen, to find and lift the burdens that have been placed on me.

I feel.

I feel vulnerable, like dying flesh in the desert waiting for vultures.

But my vulnerability is a joke.

It’s mistaken for desperation.

But you would be desperate too if you were to stand where I stand

To be looked over

Your cries ignored

Your anger left in flames with only vinegar to quench,

Your happiness is of no importance to anyone

I am not a strong black woman

I am a women, whose song that needs to be sung,

A women who yearns for affection, for protection.

I am a women who is in need and is deserving of love

When we met I saw a glimpse of our future; Of what was to be.

The warmth of your embrace,

The quiet content moments in between

The sharing of thoughts and past hurts and the promises of a continuous cycle of healing not for ourselves, but for us as a unit.

Love was there in these moments

The times we fought through misunderstandings, the times we ached through silent treatments, the times we cried silently over wounds we didnt make, but wounds created by past experiences we were forced to deal with together.

Love was there in these moments

We said our goodbyes.

Years has gone.

I'm at my local grocery shop looking for tomatoes of all things.

I stop and for some reason I smell you and you're not here. I think of us lying on the bed, my fingers running through your curly hair, and the look in your eyes, A honey brown searching into my gaze as your mouth curls into a grin and between us a feeling of rest and a true understanding of what it meant to be present. My hands reach for the heirlooms

Still, love in this moment.

I've ran away.

In this marathon called life I've run for the wrong reasons.

I yearn for human connection, but I fear it.

I've ran from family, friends, and great partnerships.

I've ran from opportunity, and positive change.

Like a hamster on a wheel I run

With no idea of a destination or end point.

I hope for myself, to find peace of mind.

But in the back of my mind, I prepare for the next marathon

We often ask “What makes art...art?”

When you enter a gallery you seek what speaks to you

When you hear music you cling to the words that carry you

When you watch a film you allow the visions and content to take you.

As intensely and as closely, I observe you.

Admire you.

I hear your words that carry me

Your physicality that speaks to me,

And your actions that take me.

In these moments I thank you for your presence.

The reality of knowing you exist;

As is,

Your human form is only a sliver of your true being;

Your soul extends beyond.

It is true that art is subjective;

Some may walk away,

Completely disregard.

But I say to you my Michaelangelo:

There is no price for your humanity,

There is no rating for your majesty,

There are no words for your presence.

Timeless masterpiece

Through fear I've ran away.

Fear of the cycle of rage

Fear of the cycle of victimhood.

I run through the dark woods, lost, looking for answers. The shadows follow me. Someone, something lurking behind.

I advance my steps.

I follow the light through the dark, I am in green pastures.

The sun kisses my face, the wind caresses my skin,

Flowers have bloomed and my nostrils take in the lavender that has calmed my beating heart.

I sit by a river for rest and am joined by local sheep.

I bask in my surroundings, stroking the wool, looking into the sky. My body at ease.

I am home.

As the day comes to an end I welcome the idea of nodding off into the land of nod.

As my eyes glaze the sheep shift and the wool comes off.

I count my blessings,

The large fangs exposed.

I am at rest.

The wolves feast.

Hidden between spaces

my existence lies.

I am the shadow that paces behind.

Following.

I am a lost identity.

What is 0 multiplied by 0?

The emptiness and hollow sadness has consumed me.

Who was I before?

I follow behind seeing the girl I use to be.

She looks back

and jumps in fear.

Afraid of her own shadow.

My aura is a a gravitational pull,

Boats

Souls,

pulling in

I guide them through the storms,

With compassion and understanding

But still,

I am hollow

I cannot fill the void within and the very few that reach don’t have the patience or certification to help me maintain

My light reaches out through the air, to life, the sea hits me and wears me thin

My light guides the way for so many boats and they continue on

And I fear,

here I will remain.

A saddlebred is to be admired.

Majestic in size and presence.

Mane groomed accordingly,

Confident trot,

A breed fully aware of its beauty, grace and agility.

...I’m more like the Donkey.