Black man. 

Do you not like the way my hair shrivels up, 

crowning my head with the same coils and kinks that your fingers once adored? 

Do you not like the way I let it grow wild and free, 

the same way you once praised me for being untamed, unfiltered, unbound? 

  

Do you not like the way my hips widen after opening my legs to bear your son, 

the same body that held you close, now stretched by the life we made together? 

Do you not like the way my curves expanded to cradle our child, 

a reflection of the sacrifices you once called beautiful? 

  

Do you not like the way words of defense spill from my tongue from your lies, 

the same lips that used to soothe you with soft truths, now protect me from your                    betrayal? 

Do you not like the way I speak with fire, 

when once you admired my strength, my ability to stand firm against the world? 

​

Do you not like the way I stand firm in my dependence of myself, 

knowing one day I’ll be independent from you, Black man? 

You once loved my drive, my ambition, my power, 

but now that I no longer need you, does it scare you? 

​

That I am Black Woman. 

A queen, unwavering in the truth of who I am. 

Comfortable with every curve, every jiggle, every flap, every bounce, every

          shrivel—

of my body, of my mind, of my space. 

I take up room, and I claim it without apology. 

My beauty is not defined by your gaze, nor my worth by your approval. 

  

No longer will the hatred of the Black man towards the Black woman 

deter me from being loved, appreciated, or worshiped. 

I will be cherished in every sense of who I am—

by myself first, and by those who see my true worth. 

  

Black man, you've lost a Good Black Woman. 

But I have found myself. 

And that, Black man, is my greatest victory. 

​