Sunday Bloody Sunday cover by Paramore

Hey y’all,

It’s been a minute. A hot minute. Truly and earnestly I hope y’all are okay. I hope you have been able to effectively contribute to the various social justice fights we’re enduring as a people. I say we as a people not only for the black people in my audience carrying the weight of the world on us right now, but for the majority fighting against the systemic oppression that allows this world and this country to stay in peril and sew seeds of violence, anger, and greed. I stand with you, I see you, and I also continue to see the people who still don’t see these issues as serious issues. I don’t have anything for anyone who is looking to absolve their guilt, I don’t have anything for people that can use the internet for mindless things but can’t research about experiences outside of their own. I have nothing for those people. But that’s because I’ve barely had enough for myself in the last couple of weeks. I’ve had less empathy to spare, I’ve had less to say, I’ve had nothing to contribute. So writing among other things has been really hard for me to focus on. And I always think time away from the pen is necessary.

But truly after the events of these past couple of months, I haven’t felt this exhausted in a minute. The fight for justice in this country and around this world for black folk has always been a bloody disruptive type of movement. Real social change is tiring, and when you’re amongst the hunted and marginalized ppl it can really mess with you in so many ways that I’ve been trying to avoid feeling in its entirety. I can only take accountability for every day I survive. So I’m trying to think in the moment and set my boundaries where I can do groundwork and behind the scenes work. But I feel guilty for wanting to find happiness and take a break from the work. But artists don’t have that choice in times like this. And as a black woman, I personally will do everything I can to make sure my health n happiness is priority in my life but I am committed to the work. I’m committed to this world changing for the better. But please forgive me if I’m already tired. I’m trying.

Here is a poem for Breonna Taylor on her 27th birthday (June 5th) that she didn’t get to see this year. say her name. I read about her n she felt like someone I could’ve known. Someone that could’ve been my friend, or my doctor/nurse. We have some things in common. And I can’t help but feel heavy for her. I can’t help but remind people not to forget black women the way we normally do. So I implore you to fight for her justice the way we fight for others to get justice.

A Eulogy without Flowers

What is your death when it isn’t a sacrifice 

But a closing of an eye 

The continuation of a chapter of pain. 

A glass breaking in the midnight hour.

The Missing Sisters— are sirens in my head, they sing their names one after another

In the sing song way you sing good morning, or happy birthday

Thankful and full of tomorrows that know how to spoil.

All of these names just tidal wave into blood on my doorstep, licking at my feet. 

The sisters we forget until the dirt indents our cheeks 

Until my name is next

To a hashtag 

To a video 

To a news report no one looks into after.

We forget to look for lost girls. 

We rely on them finding their way. 

All while being the gatekeeper of home.

Where is a black woman ever at home? 

Instead of kerosine in a world of flames

Where is a black woman resurrected for praise?

Respected in life, avenged in death, 

Hunted for our brilliance, and revered for our wealth.

If we’re honest, we miss black women when the chair at the head of the table is empty 

When the kitchen isn’t bursting over crisco and laughter 

When our beds swallow us whole 

And only give us back our limbs.

We miss a calming whisper 

We miss a gentle hand 

We don’t miss black women for their existence 

We miss what they give 

We miss what they represent. 

When the days no longer visit them regularly

Do we remember to bring them the sun? 

In libations? On the heels of solstice? 

Even when, they won’t give us anything anymore. 

Do we remember black women for memories sake? 

All for the sake of forgetting them 

At their own altars—

The way these missing sisters often are. 

There are many that go missing in the waves of sorrow; they forget their names but never the baggage they came with. 

That always has a name.