How to Keep Your Weave Tight during the Revolution: How to be Perfect when Driving while Black in a Black Women's Body 


If I could build the perfect woman she'd have a rooooooouuuuunnnnndddd Afro like the size of size eons. 


She would have giiiiaaaannnnt goals with the split tongue of Maya Angelou. She'd dance like Ellen because

 she's just that unconventional.


If I could build the perfect woman she would have the imperfect wisdom and tenacity of my mother, and swing

on a pendulum between black hole and infinity. she be the first breath outside upon release of solitary 

confinement, her reflection in the mirror like  hallucinations of a future without turmoil, she would be Angela 

Davis, Assata Shakur, a runaway black woman on the turnpike to an awakening, She'd be freedom, and if you

had the nerve to ask her... Who she was...She'd say... 

I am half God half you better pay attention before I'm gone, I am before before,I am the  the sum of every 

freckle in the sky after sunset, the scars you try to ignore, I am Sandra Bland, the woman behind the wheel, the

sidewalk, the chalk, the two girls playing hopscotch, the body dangling like a beautiful broken chandelier.

Mouth too loud, 
body too black
body too curvy,
body, 
hyper sexual.
I am dancing' my way out of 
this hornets nest into the the footprints you tried to smudge out. 

The perfect woman  would talk dirty all the time.
She'd be so feminasty you'd put porn on pause just to rewind her quoting quotes,

 "the emotional psychological, sexual stereotyping of females starts when the doctor says it's a girl."

  

If I could build the perfect woman

I wouldn't. I'd crack this society in its teeth and sell them for ransom and hollow out its chest to fill with 

knocked knees and clammy hands,  until its nerves got so bad it wanted to breath until had no choice but 

to recognize us. It would beg for all of  our ugliness and misfortune. It would  say her name in spite of fear of
 
her wisdom, in spite of bewitching us, the dishonesty of this world woven into her subconscious,  the love and

 hate of her sexuality, it would still honor her. Say her name. 


The Cattle Call

Being pretty Is learning how to accept bids for your body like livestock in an auction.

To Cradle your heart in your arms like a child when you're still unsure of yourself. 

Being pretty is being ok with advances from your teenage friend's fathers. 

Being told by white men that you're a beautiful Nubian queen.

Being reminded on street corners when catch them turning around to stare at your ass that you're just parts to them. 

Being Pretty is a back ache. 

Being Pretty is your college professors lusting after you. 

Being Pretty is a crutch we're taught to lean on. 

It's wondering if pretty is enough to keep a man from cheating on you. 

Pretty is comparing your face to her Instagram face and searching for the right filter to blend away your flaws.

Pretty is push up bras and squats.

Pretty is bending your body like a swans neck.

Dear pretty women, your lips are made for more than quivering and lipstick ads.

You are more than face down ass up. You're more than the sum of your freckles

Your are more than pretty. 

You are fierce of tongue 

Don't make yourself a shadow in the eye of the beholder.

Pretty is wearing thin. It's the cover up 

The blush

It's enhancing your beauty

It's I have to get myself together.

Pretty is...