I feel like dying.

I have always felt a death shroud clouding my thoughts, a mist so powerful that not even the love of my life could make it dissipate

A fog that clings to my lungs like a fish hook, digging into my flesh and pulling apart every bloody ounce of meaning I had left

I feel like dying.

And maybe I’m just trippin, as a black girl should

When everything seems to be crumbling around me, in this internal state of oppression I call my hood

Where suicidal thoughts ring like gunshots

Where my body is a fatherless household lacking God and my daddy

Where my mind and my heart fight a constant turf war

And maybe I’m just trippin, as a woman should

Because my emotions have been carelessly labeled and tossed into this generic idea of black womanhood







But nobody wants to talk about how bad you can burn in the sun, no matter how fucking black your skin is

I’m tired of hearing “Girl, you just need some good dick” or “Just pray about it” and “This too shall pass”

No I don’t.  No, I won’t.  And no, it will never pass.

I feel like dying.

Dead ass.

The world is a miserable gray now and everything moves too fast.

I am running and gasping for air

Chasing happiness, love, inner peace

Yet everyone and everything seems to be sprinting further and further away from me


But maybe I’m just trippin, like all these black girls be.



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