I declare.

Speaking in my Black girl voice.


Where they see joy …a young one screams falling down stairs - scared— bleeding in Alexanders on 152nd

Fear anger loathing. Patrons turning away. .

She stands straightening the ruffle of her blue dress..

I have learned there is…

No escaping the sculpture of bash .. Graff as purple scars
Body as canvas
Walking museum of another’s torment

That tears are transcendent
And maybe someone will love me and paint my soul

Or not

Always and forever a twisted beauty..

Changed my name flipped the narrative back to page one

These pages are no longer safe for introspection. As ex-lovers, abusers, deadbeats, souls I no longer acknowledge have “posted up” in an attempt to gather bits and pieces of me. To catch a glimpse of my happy. To harass to destroy..

The idea of being pregnant for twenty years is a nightmare. Holding it and holding it can’t be good. You don’t want to fetishize your own pain. You don’t want to fall in love with your own story of tragedy. I think I definitely did that for a while. My identity was about that story. And it was very comfortable, in a way. But it was also really tedious and draining, and not helpful for me in terms of the life that I wanted to live and manifest.

—Rebecca Walker on being “pregnant” with the story of your own pain - Conversations with Writers Braver Than Me #16 - Sari Botton for The Rumpus (via cilantro-green)

(via therumpus)

Style has a profound meaning to Black Americans. If we can’t drive, we will invent walks and the world will envy the dexterity of our feet. If we can’t have ham, we will boil chitterlings; if we are given rotten peaches, we will make cobblers; if given scraps, we will make quilts; take away our drums, and we will clap our hands. We prove the human spirit will prevail. We will take what we have to make what we need. We need confidence in our knowledge of who we are.

—Nikki Giovanni (via blackcontemporaryart)

(via lebeam)