As a Fully Grown Black Woman, I am Tired

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How is a Black woman created? Is she born with ‘sass’ on her tongue and anger in her eyes? At what point in my life did my heart and my mind feel the weight of my Blackness?
Was it my hair? Was it in the way my mother discouraged me from wearing it out, natural, unadorned? Was it the way the kids laughed, calling my brightly colored braids yarn, only to call the twists of strings in their corn-colored tresses fashion?

Was it my skin? Was it in the way I stood out against the other kids in my class? Was it all the times I was to stay inside unless I wanted to be cursed, caramel brown turned to shit by the kiss of sun?

Was it in my body? Did the thickness of my lips, size of my nose, definition in my arms rob me of femininity? I bloomed under bitter glances at the mirror. Was it my fault that wandering eyes took in the size of my hips, the heaviness of my breasts, and assumed I…

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