What we did and what we wore was ours, pure and rarely simple. They had to look at us. They had no choice…
We are the beautiful people…who scooped mud from the red earth and moulded our hair into sculptures that inspired and educated their masters. We are the beautiful ones who took what they saw as only a tablecloth and wore it as a skirt then as a shawl, then a gown then a crown, then at day’s end use it as a tablecloth and dine naked in our loveliness.
So to us, what’s a pair of jeans but another canvas on which to paint our portrait or another page of a journal to write our endless memoirs?…We turned all their punishment and persecution into possibility.
– Michaela Angela Davis
You are a mountain of a woman.
Perhaps too heavy for some.
In the world full of air, you are substance.
Consistently grounded, you give your truth,
With its bitter-sweetness. – Him
Never real, always true
Never failing, always learning
Never sane, but always present
Never fear, always love
Never broken, always breaking
Never nothing, always something
Never done, always rising
Never stagnant, always moving…
Pic courtesy of Check Out My Ink
It’s this heartache
That makes me go deep within myself
Poke holes into wounds
That should’ve been healed by now.
It’s a reminder of what I lack
What I should be chasing
What I should leave behind
Whether to cry
Fall into nothingness
No longer care
You are not enough
You will never be enough
It doesn’t matter how hard you work
You will never be enough
Once they know the real me they’ll hate me then leave me
You are fractured
You can’t be fixed
Learn to live your life broken
Therapy is for cowards
They just tolerate you ’cause they have to
They’ll always like him more than you
You’re a bitch
No-one will ever see you if you’re not the best
Humiliation is justified if you fail
Never show weakness
Cry only when you’re by yourself
Keep your head down
If you must talk, make it brief then shut up and look down
You will never step out of the shadows
They don’t get it
They don’t get me
I’m not sure they even like me really
You talk over people
Your passion is misplaced
Keep the details to yourself
You’re not as good as they think
Look the other way
You’re a disappointment
You’ll always feel alone
Don’t burden people with your mood swings
Don’t burden people with your problems
Don’t burden people
Nobody sees you anyway
I’m 31 now
I’ve been saying this over and over to myself so I don’t mistakenly tell someone I’m 30. I’m technical. I like to be accurate. A blessing and a curse. I laugh when people ask when I’m getting married. Or why I don’t have kids. I laugh because I understand their perspective as well as mine. They co-exist peacefully and that’s ok.
I spent 5 years trying to return to a city I loved, but when I finally got there, I realised I no longer loved it. Because I had changed. Home is wherever I lay my head. I’m still living off of one bag between cities. Movement is the move. A nomad’s lament
I’m at the finishing stages of my Masters and I’m stressed. I cry when I think about it every morning. But I play happy music and I keep going.
I can’t complain.
I chose this.
The way I dress and how I adorn myself is my business. I should have more piercings and tattoos. But I’m no longer edgy or trying to be. That left with the anger. My shaved head was long overdue. I don’t miss my afro one bit.
I get anxious when I have a lot of money. And feel guilty when I spend it. What happened? I wonder.
For two years, I watched everyone’s lives evolve while mine stayed stagnant. I watch my creativity burn to ashes with my hands tied behind my back. I said a prayer though. Hoped for some phoenix-rising type shit
I’m envious, I guess. I fell prey to the illusions of social media. But I say nothing.
Because I chose this.
Mixed feelings consume me. I saw my memories on Facebook this morning. I remembered my friend who passed away. For the first time, I was able to scroll through his profile page without crying. I still can’t listen to his music. Baby steps, I suppose
20 000 women marched in protest on my birth date in 1956. They called it Women’s Day and declared it a Public Holiday in 1996. My 12th birthday.
Friendships are changing. Some are dying. Others stay strong despite distance and time differences. Such is life.
My homie is the one. 4 months apart. Two sides of the same coin. He attracts people. I repel them. They love him. I’m the her in “What on earth is he doing with her?”
I say very little. I keep to myself. Isolation beckons me. The hiatus is calling. As always, I say no for there’s no relief for people like me. Very few off-days. We find solace in almost losing it. In torn seams. In the aching of our backs. Knowing full well that no-one will ever quite understand. We look down from ledges. Hoping nothing tips us over.
And despite all this, I’m ok. I’m on the way to my greatness. As it is. As it always has been and forever more shall be.