Call me a woman.

When you want to compliment me, tell me, “You are a black woman.”

You say this simple sentence and watch my eyes light up with fire.

I’ll think of a woman’s back that can arch so God damn perfectly, that the pleasure to which this world received is unmeasurable.

Her back bends as she nurtures her soldiers, her rebels, her leaders, her thinkers, with the sweetest juice streaming from her ripe breasts.

Her back bends as she nurtures her terrorists,her nemesis, her masters, the empty headed and empty hearted.

Her back bends as she bathes her smooth ebony skin and notices her beauty in the reflection of the waters. At awe of her plump lips, plump hips, and tiger stripes down her thighs.

Her back bends as she picks up the pieces of her being that was pecked at by vultures who consistently had their way at trying to have her forget what a queen she was.

What a prowess figurine she is with her face, her body, directly to the sun, glowing from the illumination.

Anyone would else burn.

Her back bends as she plows the soil – dropping seeds of her knowledge, wisdom, grace, spirit, and strength. Singing hymns of love and courage and hope so that her baobabs grow firm.

Her back bends as she plows the soil, working fields constantly. Day in and day out. Sunrise to sunset. Work for it. Work for nothing. You good for nothing. You’re only good for. Bent back. Back bruised.

And of course, there’s sex.

In case you weren’t strong enough, man enough to remember just who she is and what she’s capable of. Those countless tasks that the black woman bends her back for before she ever fathomed the idea of a man grinding behind her.

When you want to compliment me, look at me in my eyes. Back straight. Say with base in your voice,”You are a black woman.”

I’ll remember what that means. And in turn, I’ll hold my head high and continue to grow and and nurture this Earth as they did before me.

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