Reclaiming the Power in Being Black

When I show you all my broken pieces

you lift your shirt to show me the cracks that riddle your body

and tell me that breaking is just a cultural norm that was lost in translation.

That carrying pain is our tradition, it's part of growing up and getting tough

in order to survive in a life that is bound to beat me down like a blacksmith

pounding hammer to metal until my black body is broken into a shape

that makes other people comfortable.

You show me iron fists,

trying to choke the spirit from my lungs

before the world has a chance of stealing it.

Trauma is hereditary, we carry the hurt in our blood like it was our destiny to bleed.

It is how we clear out the poison from our systems,

the only form of healing that we know.

The men that came before you

carried demons on their backs,

accepting the burden that they were always meant to bear with gritted teeth.

I tell you I am working on taking the tension off my shoulders,

show my demons that I know how to fight back,

that it is powerful to be black.

I want you to see that breaking tradition is not always an act of rebellion,

sometimes it is simply a form of salvation,

and I know that I am worth saving.

I hope one day you do too.