And someday our knuckles won’t bleed from fighting with broken fists. Swallowing past trauma’s and erasing insecurities from our hands. Swallowing the naked truth of acceptance. Our voices won’t sound like earthquakes and our shoulders won’t carry heavy burdens of unlearning what the world has pressed on our fingertips.
Silent tears of ripped dreams in woven denim skirts. Silent screams from being dragged on bloody floors and hidden only to be found without any form of life. Our legs will stop trembling from running away from ourselves and we learn how to run into ourselves and heal from the ugliness embedded on our tongues. Heal from a society that waits for us to shout before we are taken seriously.
Someday we will laugh at how the flowers have bloomed on our scars. We will stare at roses and not be frightened at the thorns. We will have lemonade and have conversations about how our skin tones are perfection and we will talk about how our differences make us one. We will take the struggle and fold it into our cornrows and never be ashamed.
Black girls there will come a time when healing happens in our spirits from everything that has been ripped out of our grandmothers and mothers, will grow and come alive in us and we will carry torches of hope. Hope of existence. Hope of self. Hope of having no fear.