Trapped In The Margins

I looked in the mirror and began to cry.

Not ordinary tears but ones of deep sorrow.

The kind that comes from generations of trauma.

The ones where my ancestors break through

And weep for me.

A child of God.

Their child.

The fruit of their labor.

The triumph among adversity.

The culmination of centuries of hard work.

Of slavery.

Of bondage.

A child who was born free.

A child who was broken by the system.

A child that grew into a woman.

A woman who is bound.

The masters don’t carry whips anymore.

They carry business cards.

And fill your head with promises of freedom.

Just sign the dotted line.

Sold my soul for a come up.

Only to be told to shut up.

Sit down and listen.

No one wants to hear you.

Shrinking oneself never felt so violent.

Mastering silence.

Master.

Slave.

The narrative never changed.

Only the players.