Memoirs of a Slave

To my unborn child:
I’m sorry I brought you into a world where you are not wanted

Im sorry that all your dreams are taken for granted

When you should stand up, I raise you to be grounded
I’m sorry that when Rosa sat on the bus I didn’t sit with her

When Martin said march, their hearts were bitter 

Gunshots and chokeholds made us non-believers 

And yet they call Malcolm X a deceiver

 

I’m sorry that you fear walking down the streets

When you should stand up, they put you down on your knees

When you do stand up, they stomp you with their feet
So excuse me, India Arie, but I am my hair.

Let me tell you about this self-love affaire 

See each curl is a curve of my dignity

Even if they claim its my malignity

See my sun-kissed skin forms a goddess

“From head to toe,” Miles Hodges.
So as your eyes follow the meanders of my body, 

Remember that I wasn’t made to please you

And as you sink in judgments, little girl

Remember that not everything they say is true
Written by Habiba Orsud.

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