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Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Category: Writing


This pandemic has made me stop talking. Has frozen my thoughts from being born. Has stifled my creativity. Has wrapped me in familiar trauma drenched bandages, made new. It’s covered my eyes. It’s muted the taste on my tongue. This pandemic has washed up and over and through Me diluted me I don’t remember how to exist beyond the hours of the similar days I don’t know… #truestoriesof2020

Disabled Chronicles – COVID-19 Edition, No.23

That one time you steal out yo house to make a quick trip to Walgreens to get some OTC meds cause you ran out and though delivery would have been optimal it was 1) too expensive and b) wouldn’t arrive until next week 🙄 So you convince yourself that the quick trip would be worth it and you head out at top speed, causing your front wheels to rattle like they about to give up on life, while you watching

Black Women Tears

There are tears Black Women shed, that speak of every disappointment and hurt that’s brought her to this very moment. They are tears of anguish and sometimes despair that maybe encompass never being regarded as precious, even as a GirlBaby or a WomanChild. They are tears of anger for having to do more, be more, give more and yet never being met where she stands, much less where she cries. They are tears of revolution for her gifts being plundered

Disabled Chronicles, No.2d2

After Spinraza injections, the ‘floaties’ in my eyes appear like straight lengths of ‘string’ with an impressive knot in the middle. Uniform, peculiar as my ‘normal’ floaties go, which are bendy, twisted affairs, beautiful in their organic go at existence. Plentiful when I am sick and sparse when I am properly hydrated. These ‘new’ style of floaties cut across my vision, like slow moving cargo ships, pregnant with genetically modified packages for my body. I notice them most the next

This Work

in the reaching muscles, taut strand over strand to breaking, burning… faith – dust speck wide, without kin or end of tunnel light – sparked anyway, and The Work of un-breaking The Child, of wiping The Grown from Young Mind of blowing heart-wrenched intercession-backed kisses against splintered psyche, thankless work wretched work work of the lost work of the mourning that Work long ignored, long hushed That Work – Yes, let it begin Oh Ancestors! Women, gather your skirts, women