There is something soothing about a blank sheet of paper. And here I am. I write.
I live in a world that tells me my voice don’t matter. Yet, I persist.
I speak. And I hear my words ring.
I live in a world that tells me my feelings are too raw. Too much. Too ugly. Yet, I persist.
I feel. And I let these feelings run through my body. My fingers. My eyes. My feet. My thighs.
I live in a world that tells me my body is too shameful.
The words of a child, “your hair is very very furry.”
An evidence of colonialism. Of rape. Of trauma. Of pain.
My curly hair. My rough skin. My pores. My eye lids. My cheekbones.
Myself is a manifestation of hope, of joy, of good.
My talents. My voice. My sensibility. My passion. My desires. My needs.
I persist. And only when I persist. I am alive.
I show myself. I occupy. I am. I live.
I feel and I heal.
