We bleed too.
There is misinformation out there about the Black woman. It suggests we don’t feel pain, only anger; negating the fact that anger is a secondary emotion - hurt’s shadow.
Anger belongs to hurt, it is her child. It grows inside of her. Very much a labor of love with a painful delivery.
Sometimes, people puncture you just to see you bleed, just to see you cry, just to see you die.
Do not invite them to your funeral. Your pity party is at capacity. Your healing is for VIP guests only; people with healing hands who come with a song to sing. People who come with a handful of rose petals, a bucket of joy, a fountain spewing nothing but grace.
People who move deep despair out of the home that is your soul like old furniture cast away to the sidewalk. People who carve the infection out of your bones so it just doesn’t spread anymore.
The healers, the lovers, the Black woman’s Black woman. People dedicated to your existence instead of your downfall.