Salted Honey and Self Love

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I always find what I need from the words, the mouths, the souls of Black Womxn. Without fail. Without cease. Without lies. The way that our poetry cuts and heals at the same time. The way it makes me wander off in my head and heart to my past, trying to capture why it was that I did not grow up and become so full of love for my own Blackness as  they did, as they are. The way it makes me feel whole and human and new.

This is not to say that any of us have had it easier or harder or any kind of way but the way that shaped us. In a white supremacist world, there is no prize for the deepest wound or widest scar. There is only us, transmuting pain to salt and honey. We do this with the boot firmly on our necks. We do this while fighting for breath and cleaning up the blood and burying the bodies.

I am fully aware that this kind of poetry, this medium of spoken word is a bafflement to the average white person. It doesn’t conform to the parameters of the Canon. It doesn’t sit rigid within the quatrains and meter of dead old white men and women. These are stanzas without restraint, breaking bad and wild and impenitent. In the wake of these words you are hugging yourself in pure delight or you are nodding in commiserating despair, but you are not numb, you are not blind. You are everything and the speaker is everything and Blackness in this form is…everything.

Every time I experience the heart of my sistxs through art or anger, or tears, or anything at all, I am reborn, even if only momentarily. I am shining with hope and I am certain that no matter what, we gon’ be alright. So this is a love song of sorts, a praise song to all that we are outside of the white gaze. That we so easily slip our bonds in this way is all kinds of magic, conjure and Hoo Doo Roots. The Ancestors gather when a Black Womxn speaks art. Look and listen:

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