She embraces the blue scars on her soul.
Society sings in her sleep,
Truth dressed as blasphemy.
Words broke her to pieces and when she was scattered on the floor,
Scavengers feasted.
Words are a reminder that she was moulded out of scars and broken bones.
The skeletons in her closet are proof of how long she’s been here.
Her black birthmark, the mark of her peril.
She laments at last:
“I am a woman and my feet burn in snow as I taste the sourness of your sweet words.”
I am black,
Curly hair and swaying hips and I indulge in the pleasant bitterness of your stares.
I am a song and I am her, and these are the words that matter to me.