Open your mind.
Rip it apart, actually.
Like you do a woman’s legs when you fuck her.
I hate limitations. Grandiose orthodox shit frustrates me.
Having to sweat through a 9-5 in order to put food on my table is excruciatingly painful enough. And, sometimes, it feels like “strong black woman” comes with a manual. It’s part of the territory.
I like to imagine myself standing on a balcony, smoking and drinking wine, with grace and humility, asking the world;
“How the fuck am I a strong black woman?”
I do come from a linage of strong women who guarded the gates of patriarchy. The one who didn’t is a single (unfuckwithable and I suspect unfuckable) mother.
Whispers about her in the last family gathering were monotonous;
“Will she ever get married?”
“What’s the point of all those riches if you never get the most important rich; marriage?”
She didn’t get it. She didn’t wake up one day and realise she has not been living fully. She didn’t meet a gorgeous man she always dreamt of. She’s alone, still.
Miserable. Happy. Free. Hurt. Abundant. Cheated. Tired. Strong. Enslaved. Living, breathing.
Just like married women.
I’ve fucked with low self-esteem. Over and over again.
I don’t even think it’s that; I think sometimes, you really just want to carelessly fall for a man whose not yours.
I’ll go with effects of absent father. For now.
There’s no difference between staying through his affairs and being his mistress.
The difference is who’s on the Will when he dies.
The devoted wife who stays through it all is not dumb.
“Fuck it, he’s not leaving me!”
I’ve let men ride me like a horse. Through and through.
Most of the time, I left. Sometimes they left first. I wonder; if they didn’t leave, would I have turned into my mother? A devoted wife?
I’ve suppressed my intellect, and watched myself flourish at the expense of other women. Shame them even.
What can I say? I’m an animal. I have an instinct to protect myself.
I know masculinity always has to kill a woman in order to rise;
So – I take precautions. I breathe. I breathe.
Do you know that women who are single by choice are women who don’t want to die?
We died before.
I’ve had an abortion. Realised that women like me are expelled from stories of their pregnancies.
Shame is all we’re meant to carry.
Like women who are raped.
Who the fuck wants to hear from a woman who is a murderer?
Nobody wants to know why. Nobody wants to know how it made you feel. Nobody wants to hear how relieved you are!