Somewhere along the way, they told us our glitter was ashes. They told us that what we touched turned to dust, not gold. They convinced us that we bleed as punishment not purpose-fulfillment.
Somewhere along the way, our magic was minimized. They said we were ordinary, not walking proof of miracles. And we started believing them. We did. We let the world tell us we had to apologize for ourselves. We had to be polite but stern, sexy but not too sexual, bosses but not bossy, confident but not cocky, motherly but not matronly. We had to hide the rough edges they created in us and be soft but not fluffy.
And Black woman? Well, you’ve been told you’re the mule when you are The Mother of all of this. We are jewels. We are the reason for poems to be written. Sappy love notes with metaphors that seem hyperbolic but are more grounded in truth than you know.
Somewhere along the way, we were told we aren’t enough when we are truly EVERYTHING.
You are literally LIFE everlasting. You are God’s vessel. Science can’t explain us. We are magic.
I feel like someone somewhere needs to hear that. Don’t let nobody tell you shit, woman. You’re made of pixie dust. They just don’t know what to do with it.