Why I Love Black Girls (Anger's Predation on Our Hearts)
So I know from the title this appears like it’s a happy poem, but it’s not. I was actually pretty pissed when I wrote it because of how painfully true it felt. Anger has a very worn-in seat at the table when it comes to the spirit of the black woman in America (and all for obvious and justifiable reasons). But part of the reason why I wrote this poem (in addition to studying personification) was as a warning. America and all of its toxic isms use anger as the vehicle through which to seduce us, to play us, to bring out the worst in us. And while we are 110% justified in our anger about our treatment by those in power, I also think it’s important to not let our anger be the fuckboy that makes a fool out of us.
Black girls
the apple of my eye;
hearts as big, and red, and ripe
for the taking.
Their heart strings
so easily played
longing to be strummed by a loving touch.
How easily they respond to my pluck;
moaning songs of sorrow and anguish that
flood my ears with nectar and ambrosia.
A full meal they provide
down to the last bite;
a gnawed,
browning core
I throw to the trash can,
but miss.
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