this is why she leaves

you wearing the dashiki is not a sign of appreciation

you mispronouncing my name when i have worked for you for 10 months is not a sign of appreciation

you telling me to swallow the fact that i feel invisible and violated in the order to make him comfortable is not a sign of appreciation

you taking out your anger and frustration on me, when they have screwed you over is not a sign of appreciation

you referring to me as a maid and you telling me they did not mean it, is not a sign of appreciation

you saying being a strong black woman is my value and my confidence in my existence needs to be toned down is not a sign of appreciation

you not saying anything and watching the violence occur day by day is not a sign of appreciation

you making monkey noises when you see me in the midst of a crowd is not a sign of appreciation

you coming up to me and saying are from Africa and saying yes i knew it because you look African is not a sign of appreciation

you saying to my face with white teeth, my friend has that disease the one they all get in Africa is not a sign of appreciation

you saying they all sound the same, and i am the excuse because i dont know any better when i told you better is not a sign of appreciation

well fuck you and your anti black, anti african ideology



Thursdays are the hardest, to get up to put on clothes, to brush my teeth, i stare hard in the mirror looking past space and time with blank stare my mind in bed, underneath peach covers rolled into a fetal position. I water my hair, a routine that is harder on this day, pulling at the matted hair that does not want to detangle, each holding onto one another, maybe they knew the secret of this eventful day. Tears streaming down my face, i make the call, save me, I am at the point of no return. I am drowning faster than I thought possible, time has run out and I sitting in the mist of the crowd tears company. Making it to Friday is a challenge because Thursdays are lived in fear and anticipation, anxiety a tight noose around my neck cutting and cutting with each breath, until 12am to release a small prayer of thanks to live to see another day. I live in this bubble and with Wednesday around the corner, the panic starts revealing that making it through Thursday, there is a small chance I will live to see the end of the weekend.

The process of healing

i dream of bones growing underneath my eyelashes, white and sharp with jagged lines smoothed by days of dry salt from irritated red eyes- the night is long

you are so skinny now they whisper with pearly teeth, waiting to be kissed out of obedience, calling it their rightful honor, bones digging into ribs, i hold them close cutting myself into quarters, a whole left at home underneath the bed with the light off in child pose breathing into  air pockets, working on myself, the water working its way slowly to my feets, the process of cleansing slowly meticulous measure by each breath, i hug them tight, blank eyes, wide smile, i lean back the mask in place, i let go and laugh a while and move on, same smile. At home, the water comes and goes and each time it warms to my body heat, fire slowly consuming the darkness, bring to the light to name the violence: a community consumed by look and greed, anything to be, misreading depression as fat, misreading depression as skinny. the bones over flow with salt, shiny, clean and sharpen slowly loosening for the war to come


It always takes a long time for the words to land. So much time spent trying  to sound  just.. just enough that home does not slip through. But with every sentence the truth becomes clear. 


Your voices rise above the sound of the running water. No no

Collecting a breath I tune it out, your anger, your ignore.. everyday this violence becomes a replica of what your swore you will never become.. yet you let him in, gave him the key.. in doing so you failed at the promise you whispered into your boney wrist as you by your lips when you realized that you mattered. A child, this was your turning moment when you begin to think about love, love for yourself

Dishes done, next shower and lay in bed. Trying not cry you turn on the light, and you look at your bed and sigh.. heavy and your sink into the bed and your bones unravel but this time.. the process takes longer than most.. your shoulder throb from weights you have no business lifting…

Reading you espace into spaces. Your mind numb with the weight of living, numb you look at the time 9:30. An hour until the dark overcomes… you try to not think and be. At ten you move, brushing your teeth, you truly to avoid looking at the mirror, your sunken eyes, redder today than other, skin like rubber, you rise. Back in bed, you lay and play day as you wait for the sun to rise and try it again


Born and raised with tough skin, we don’t cracks, cracking sounds of the pot, we reach for the cover to prevent water from overspilling to feed the thirsty ground. This year too the water has not come and like every year we put our prayer in our back pocket and in these rough time times we put them out, and blow on them hoping like seeds they will scatter and bud a future for hungry minds and stomachs.  These prayers are our hope. By water we grow, by water we build, by water we birth. We walk the mile to the empty field single file. Led by the children, the sounds of their rumbling stomachs match the beats of the elders’ footsteps, the women’s  subdued voices a soothing breeze in the dry heat. Single filed, the women march  continued, toward to field all with one word in their heart: tomorrow.