Post by kriscat121 on May 3, 2022 11:21:52 GMT -5
Kiss my scars.
The scars that no one ever said would heal.
They were right.
I absorb them all like a memory that can never be concealed.
For who am I to be the one to live in insecurity in doubt.
Is it because the world would rather see me lighter faced with eyes matching a bag of green tea?
I am the epitome of my people’s beauty.
I cover up but it never means I think i’m not enough.
I only fear the ones sharing my tone that will laugh at the damage I hold.
It would be viewed as cruel to someone who’s life isn’t a story of it all misconstrued.
I am not the only one that shares the unbreakable bond of poisoned melanated telephones.
They latch to my eardrums with every beat speaking words of a contract I never agreed.
They encourage us but when you’re down they uplift someone who isn’t brown.
I couldn’t get it until now.
We will never be endowed with what it means to be equally free.
It’s not my job to make them love me.
Maybe it was to show them how great I can be without their critique.
My skin bleeds words of truth which point me in the direction of my tainted mirror that lies to me.
I said I see myself as the epitome of beauty.
But in the deep all they see is a black ghetto girl who has no history of prosperity.
All the girls who look like me say they don’t care.
I can attest it’s a long way to being fair.
To be in the light of my candor wounds we do rise then fall.
But our sponge of a soul collects the words of brokenness told turning them into things we can hold.
The thing in between is the only a bare chest of bleeding humility.
Do they expect us to hold their hand while ours crumbles?
How can we?
When all the world has taught us is to carry it on our back and to never look back in fear of what we’re holding.
So please kiss those scars.
We have kissed yours long enough to deserve a fraction of that so called black love.
But then again there is always that choice of being a thug who never needs a hug.
To be a black man is to be a burden.
To be a black women is to be bound.
To each other we can be a serene pool of clarity.
This option is only for ones who can be the options.
Who see the options of people who do not look like me.
Like us.
I promise they shape the views of us.
The scars that no one ever said would heal.
They were right.
I absorb them all like a memory that can never be concealed.
For who am I to be the one to live in insecurity in doubt.
Is it because the world would rather see me lighter faced with eyes matching a bag of green tea?
I am the epitome of my people’s beauty.
I cover up but it never means I think i’m not enough.
I only fear the ones sharing my tone that will laugh at the damage I hold.
It would be viewed as cruel to someone who’s life isn’t a story of it all misconstrued.
I am not the only one that shares the unbreakable bond of poisoned melanated telephones.
They latch to my eardrums with every beat speaking words of a contract I never agreed.
They encourage us but when you’re down they uplift someone who isn’t brown.
I couldn’t get it until now.
We will never be endowed with what it means to be equally free.
It’s not my job to make them love me.
Maybe it was to show them how great I can be without their critique.
My skin bleeds words of truth which point me in the direction of my tainted mirror that lies to me.
I said I see myself as the epitome of beauty.
But in the deep all they see is a black ghetto girl who has no history of prosperity.
All the girls who look like me say they don’t care.
I can attest it’s a long way to being fair.
To be in the light of my candor wounds we do rise then fall.
But our sponge of a soul collects the words of brokenness told turning them into things we can hold.
The thing in between is the only a bare chest of bleeding humility.
Do they expect us to hold their hand while ours crumbles?
How can we?
When all the world has taught us is to carry it on our back and to never look back in fear of what we’re holding.
So please kiss those scars.
We have kissed yours long enough to deserve a fraction of that so called black love.
But then again there is always that choice of being a thug who never needs a hug.
To be a black man is to be a burden.
To be a black women is to be bound.
To each other we can be a serene pool of clarity.
This option is only for ones who can be the options.
Who see the options of people who do not look like me.
Like us.
I promise they shape the views of us.