Now I’m talking
We are not a snack
We are communion
Our bodies are broken religiously by men who will never comprehend its power
In our dark brown skins, we are gods
Our divinity is coiled into our thick black curls
We are diety
Worship our broken feet
They have prevailed over the hands of broken men
who we yesterday poured out of our bellies
We are standing
On scorching brown soil that resembles our hearts.
Our chests are burning
This time you will hear us
Our tongues will no longer sit quietly in your shackles
We will not be silenced
We are not your toys
We are not a plaything scheduled for disposal.
We will not be used then cast out like persevering demons
Do not reduce our being to breasts and buttocks
Young boy, who gave you permission to take without asking?
How dare you call us ANGRY?
We are an outburst of feminine glory
Our eyes beaming with vigour
Our smiles are a delicacy
We are not a shadow
we carry the sun in our hands
We embody a fierce mind
We are lights
We are gods
We are gods!
Ok, I’m done.