I hate all the versions of me , I was a beggar
Two hands out looking for a sixpence of affection..
i hate all the versions of me that didn’t know better , but should of had known better
I hate all the versions that ever told a man she needed them … as if she didn’t learn how to walk on water … as if she doesn’t have a god , as if she is not a god or scripture .
as if she is not an ancestor … as if shes not holding wisdom in her veins … like lines crossed around her hand ..
as if body cannot create life and take it back and rebuke … it’s conjuring .
i hate all the versions of me , that become a damaging ecosystem to those who tried to grow inside me
I hate all the versions of me that learned to be breathe in carbon dioxide . That when it got time to breathe in oxygen I didn’t know how to come up for air .
i hate all the versions of me that didn’t recognize I am crown and Nubian . for everytime I held a mirror againist shadows and hated my relfection .
I hate all the versions of me , that insecurity clingers for me like a cloak , a stain , I couldn’t wash .. do You know not your worth ?
i detest the growth process . … but I have adored it’s healing … for girlhood is the constant ripping of thighs and bleeding , becoming male fantasy .. and becoming standard beauty , fidgeting with scale and worth .. womanhood is bleeding and knowing body ,
love comes in the shape of a woman .. is taking lessons and not letting the damage be lineage …
i will not leave behind a body that Carries stories of women who did not ever learn their lesson …