We call it #blackgirlmagic when a black woman makes a feast from the scraps. When she sings the morning after the murder. When she obliterates every obstacle in her path. When she forgives the perpetrator. When she tenderly wraps up the anguish and sorrow of others. When she turns her guts into glory. When she paints with her blood and sweat and tears. When she still shows up. Still beats the odds. Still loves.
Your poetic prose is music to the soul — thank you for your power and glory...
Keep writing Miyah Byrd for surely your voice is honouring all the great, great grandmothers, aunts, sisters, groaning under a weight they most often had not time or space or tools with which, to articulate.
I thank you for motivating me, giving me strength, in the depths of another winter in which my sisters continue their silent treatment
Tortured for too long, and some of us become not blackgirlmagic but broken and reshaped into tools, for our torturers to use
Speaking truth to power hurts the most when the centuries-old custom of collaborating divides and rules, those you love/(d)
You stretch the sinews of your soul to understand
(While your body bleeds from fresh wounds)
Your broken bones have become stronger
(They live quiet days of desperation and morning T.V)
As they degenerate, becoming numbed
They have succumbed, settled for the mouldy crumbs
The sugary poisoned treats, from the oppressors’
You bandage your wounds, you wonder and you wait
As you want to draw them back to their own womanist glory
But they stab you in the back and tell you with their silence, 'shut up'!
They have a guilty conscience and while ghosting you,
They are sucking up to the ones with power,
Presenting elaborate feasts, they look away from the bloodied claws,
One sister’s thyroid stutters, the other one’s pancreas packs up
They’re dying, dying slowly from a bottomless hunger, and diabetes.
See, what happens when the miracle of blackgirlmagic
Does not happen?