"Black Girl Blues" 

A Trilogy of Spoken Word Poems

~SHHHH, IT'S JUST ME  

Do you remember?

Sometime ago

Under a summer

No...

A spring night sky.

And we were innocents

Young and free

With fire in our hearts and rebellion in our veins

I ran,

Laughing as my high heels hung from my fingertips And my toes caressed the grass.

And I.

Nothing but glitter,

And dancing

He said I twinkled just for him

And I did.

I just wanted to have fun

Remember?

That's all I ever wanted.

But he,

All sharp angles and hostility

Meat and rib cage as punishment for my sins

Held me prisoner in my own kindness.

But he didn't start out that way...

Maybe he was kind?

So I forgot.

But sometimes I forget to forget

Only to realise

I never remember it clearly enough...

Did he have blonde hair?

Freckles?

Were his large hands hairless as they clutched my neck?

The region south of where my back curves outwards,

Like an invitation.

Did his heart beat to its usual rhythm as he trapped me in an embrace?

As if it was just another Tuesday?

Holding me so tight I couldn't urge my lungs to work.

And did every ounce of me hate it?

Was there any part of me thinking anything other than

“Run, girl” ?

I asked and asked until one day I realised

I wanted to forget.

Well do I remember that night?

After he had whispered sweet nothings

I told me,

Do not fall for his serpent speech.

But I tumbled, head first

And there was nothing I could do.

I was just, there

I was just, a girl

And he was just, a silly, silly boy.

Nothing happened...

Remember?

~IF GOD IS QUIET, LIFE WILL PASS HER BY 

Inside a dead poet’s closet,

I found God

In the form of a poem.

She left her heart scattered across a couple of pages,

Telling me about us.

How we seem to forget her,

Discard her as if she was simply an infatuation drenched crush.

And we summon her back when we realise

We need her.

But she’s worried, one day

We won’t return.

And she will do anything to avoid this eventuality.

Parts her hair with a knife

Drinks the tears of ancestors under full moon.

Recites prayer, after incantation, after prayer.

Fills her lungs with water,

Then with salt.

As though she is ocean,

As though she is free.

Walks as though gravity escapes her

She will float,

Levitate.

And she’ll bleed all the gold in this world just to be a little more beautiful. Break the bones of her skeleton in the hopes that they will re-grow into something…. More.

And she is nothing but a frame,

A patchwork of dissatisfaction and malice.

So she will breathe fire and ice,

Tear down kingdoms and rip apart continents

And when she's done,

Lay her head upon cloud and dream,

Imagine.

For on an undetermined day she will make.

Using nothing but dirt and breath she will forge free will and conscience.

She will,

Create.

So who’s to blame her,

If she decides to forget

About us?

~BLACK MAGIC  

When I was 4 years old,

I went from a world of melanin,

To being a minority and in that moment,

I knew I had to learn to play make believe.

My mother taught me how to survive.

Told me to mute my vibrancy,

Dilution is key, she said.

Somewhere along the way

My mother tongue was forced from my lips.

Evicted by foreign speech

As if it were owing rent.

And now,

This foreign speech is all I know.

Got nothing left to hand down to my descendants

Except excuses

That I long since painted in sorrow.

Black women had to learn how to grieve quietly

How to pick our spine up when it's crumbling.

And along the way we forgot we were women

Forgot that there is femininity soaking in the depths of our complexion,  Nestled in the valleys of our curves.

But we've always been taught to be concrete.

To take the hits and get right back up,

Always been head high and shoulders back.

I N D E P E N D E N T

Our tear soaked anthem when the world is asleep,

And the moon has gone silent.

That is when we are women,

Ladies,

Girls.

I was raised to climb out of my tower,

Slay my dragons,

And stand on my own two feet

While Snow White was gifted the luxury

Of being a damsel in distress.

That must be why I have chameleon hair.

Maybe it is because of the history it is bathed in

Maybe my soul enjoys the freedom of detachment. Maybe sometimes it just wants to forget...

You can see it in my smile.

That is why I wear platinum hoops large enough to fit my joy, As if they can swallow the emptiness.

And the first time foreign fingers found their route into my locks, I cried.

As if they took a slice of my humanity.

Reconstructed me into animal,

I cried.

On behalf of those whose tears had long since dried up. Foreign fingers on the apex of my neck

Casting a shadow the shape of my great great great grandmother, Swaying with the breeze.

But I can't help wondering...

Who hurt the people,

That hurt people,

Who look like me?

How can one ignore the beauty in bodies the colour of mahogany And roasted coffee grounds?

Of sand, earth, night sky,

And everything in-between?

We,

Stuck in a cycle of misguided inferiority,

Maybe we fell in love with our tribulations.

Allowed ourselves to impose someone else's beliefs of us  On each other.

Maybe we're supposed to be angry?

But how could we be?

When they too

Had no clue,

That we once were,

Always have been,

Always will be,

Black Magic.