they carried the insufferable weight
of invisible sins
on their backs and we worried
about our own suffrage.

we demanded to be seen
as strong
while refusing to let them be
seen.

we were coddled into submission,
baby-talked into babies,
and cried for our own injustices
back turned to our sisters
who needed us most.

and even now,
with this poem written in past tense
we still look passed the tension
yelling in our faces.

we chase after self,
celebrate “progress” in the name of
white accomplishments
and most belong in hell.

we ignore the truth of our history
hide behind the riveter
for stepping up to the jobs
that black women were already working.

inlay of shimmering white guilt
denial saves us from remorse because
voting is to a white woman what
blinders are to a horse.

I am not a novelist, I am a poet.
Stories run through me, from me,
Not sunny.
I stutter and I stumble
My dialogue is bad
And with prose, I teem.

Time buries me with
A million lines,
Too many commas,
Too many rhymes.

“So write a collection!” exclaim the encouragers,
But the worn backspace of my keyboard groans,
“Oh, don’t you encourage her!”

And so I am a poet, a novelist I am not.
Wishing for more words, until Time lets me rot.

I am a daisy in the dead of winter.
Upon first glance,
my petals blend into the snow as if they are one.

Gentle,
and kind,
my vernality becomes a responsibility.
Stay warm,
Stay pretty,
Stay sweet,
No matter how cold the snow gets.

Vulnerable to anyone who may decide to rip my roots from the ground,
I savor each moment,
try to bask in the green of my own leaves,
and remain soft.
Remain alive
despite existing in a world
that would rather see me wilt.