I'm Still Here

All the world's a stage

And we are merely players,

Or, so the story goes.

But when the action stops,

And the music fades,

When the house lights flick on,

Brilliantly exposing the gritty theatre,

I'm still here.

A woman-child born in sin,

Of sin,

To become sin.

An abomination.

The subject of hushed-tone whispers,

And side-eyed nods.

From those claiming to be "in the know."

Yet beautiful,

Brilliant,

Born of love,

From love

to love and be loved.

My story is as old as time,

Beginning on the West African plains,

The lush green hills of Scotland,

And the vast fertile soil of the New World.

I am the stolen and the thief,

I am the oppressor and the oppressed,

I am the master and the servant,

I hold the lash yet feel its searing sting.

A child of slaves.

Kin to the masters.

My history is world history.

And I'm still here.

When the marching stops,

And the band goes home,

When the slogans and t-shirts disappear,

I'm still here.

I'm more than a month.

I'm more than a player.

I'm more than the show.

I AM the stage.

I AM the world.

And I'm still here,

All. Year. Long.