I am unapologetically, over the moon, absolutely just cheesy cornball, would probably make you roll your eyes levels, proud of being Black, especially during this — the 28 Blackest days of the year.
All I have is an ellipsis. Grief is a flat circle. And I never imagined I would have to live through grieving her.
How do you tell them your poem about pussy doesn’t negate your love for God? That your spirituality isn’t separate but an extension of you?
I am ready to be fearless. To dream beyond Black womanhood and know that I — Black, queer, and not-quite-sure — am worthy, so worthy of all of the love, affirmation, and power the universe can muster.
I always wonder what words my ancestors had for someone like me. In embracing my genderfluid identity, I’ve found great comfort in the deep and wide of the Atlantic — the way the water connects me to kin, named or unknown.