✨A story✨
I was not born to guard a shade of skin—
I was born to tend the fire within.
To carry a way, not a color or name,
To walk like the wind and not burn in the flame.
They said protect the bloodline, keep it pure,
But blood means nothing if the soul’s unsure.
I’ve seen the old ways buried in fear,
But I’ve heard them whisper, “We are still here.”
“I am a healer… I was gifted as a girl,”
They tried to unteach me the ways of the world.
But I kept my feet in the dirt and the dew,
And the land remembered what the empire never knew.
It’s not the skin that holds the truth—
It’s the walk, it’s the vow, it’s the wisdom of youth
That lives again when we touch the land,
And call back the sun with our outstretched hands.
The melanin returns where it once had fled,
In the sacred, slow repair of the ancestral thread.
Not through force, not by might, not by shame or control—
But by walking the Way that remembers the soul.
The rhythm, the ritual, the tears in the rain—
Wash through the marrow and loosen the pain.
We are not saving a face—we are saving the flame.
And the flame knows how to rename every name.
So let the world talk of heritage lost—
We pay no mind to their fearful cost.
We are the women who rise with the tide—
We carry the sun they can only hide.
And when they ask where we’ve been so long…
We’ll answer in thunder, in dance, in song:
We’ve been returning, slow and wide—
We’ve been healing the root from the inside.