A lot of my writing is centered around the idea of survival: how I learned to survive in my body as a fat black queer woman. When I was younger, I learned to use my mouth as often as I used my fists, and both were used often.
My humor, my ability to talk shit about anyone, especially myself, was usually my first line of defense. And, if that didn’t work, there was always a baseball bat or a screwdriver.
I don’t know how many fights I’ve been in, but I do know that I haven’t lost one since the first one. When I was six, I got jumped. My mom sat me down and asked how I felt, told me I’d have to learn to swing or speak. I promised myself that I would never feel that helpless again, in any situation.
These poems are my fight song, literally and figuratively. Everything I have ever done, right or wrong, good or bad, is what has kept me here, alive and still writing. In the words of Miss Sofia in The Color Purple: “All my life I’ve had to fight.” And I don’t plan on stopping.