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
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
My feet feel like I’ve been standing on them all day. They are achy and throbby and super glad to be in bed. I did not use my fancy schmancy foldy chair to adjust myself but for one hour today… really over the past four days. I’ve been working. Planning. Dreaming. Hoping. Crying. Praying. Grounding my feet in the only thing that makes sense to me during this time of year: work. It’s Oui Color work; my main website work.
By way of My Cowboy, Ira Wile: “The problem is you’re too busy holding on to your unworthiness” — Ram Dass
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