I have become accustomed to silencing my voice.
Tucking my truth in the cracks of the ground,
in hopes that when it rains,
it will make safe way down a drain.
My silence is music to the ears of the status quo
but deafening to my spirit—
Emptiness echoes loudly internally.
I am afraid that if I speak, my voice will become invalid.
Forcefully shoved and tucked away in society’s back pocket
and made to become skeletons in my closet.
Who cares about the story that the Black girl has to tell?
Silence is the garment I drape myself in, in order to feel protected.
Fear is the food I feed myself because hope is too much to afford.
I fear I cannot be myself in peace.
I know that remaining silent is costly—even deadly.
But what about speaking up and aloud?
Artificiality has portrayed itself to be more rewarding than authenticity.
What does it mean to be both Black and female in America?
By TiElla Grimes