Suppressing Statistics


United States
40° 37' 50.682" N, 74° 7' 5.2428" W

Pregnancy has become a synonym for African American statistics.
Average has become the definition of that.
Holes in condoms. STD’s in a wet spot drowned in low self esteem and rumors made true.
The false is who she is or who she thinks she is or who society wants her to be.
Me is a belligerent word to the unknown who lost themselves in closets and bedspreads of men who belonged to others and toy boxes belonging to little boys who thought they were men, but like toddlers do were imitating what they had seen on a tv screen that they imagined would show them who their daddies were and how he stole their mothers dream.
How a few strokes towards a women’s vagina could cause her backstrokes into childhood and memories of her wanting to be loved, so she opens her legs wider for another man wanting her to call him daddy because she was never aware of what or whom came with that title.
The deed to her heart rips like paper would because she knows nothing of love and everything of pain and struggles sore jaws and locked vaginal muscles.
Back contractions and false muscles spasms, fake happiness and that unawkward while well familiar feeling of abandonment when he gets up and walks out; and with every body that passes through her body and in between a demolished sanctuary she just puts her head down and whispers bye daddy.
That unfamiliar face that has been replaced by multiple and taken account of by none, but that abortion clinic and the pharmacist that slides her AZT across the counter.
the arthritis she built up in her hands while jerking off men and herself at the same time.
Black girl what do you make of this? You destroyed your beauty, put up these walls that have holes in them and not for love to come through but for another man to take whatever was or is left of you.
You carry in your womb babies of cousins and brothers, make a mockery of yourself on television for peoples amusement, and dethrone yourself from being the queen that our ancestors slaved for to make you.
Black girl what has become of us, you show your body to the undeserving, whisper words of foolishness in little boys ears, because you think it is what he wants to hear.
Black girl what will we do about this? Of all the influences we have you choose to understudy the ill-willed,easily influenced and motherless children who call themselves women because they have had enough bodies laid on them to be called an unethical and unorthodox church.
These women that you want to imitate get paid to feel wanted, sell your soul for a temporary feeling of longing. Like sex with multiple men, and that fake orgasm that doesn’t make it till the morning.
Black girl look what we have become:plastic figures, barbies, yes I said it, barbies you know that hard plastic doll that’s almost like a dildo, and your sexing yourself out of an opportunity to be an individual and to face the world head on, and not giving head on, your knees, this is who we are, or want to be? Black girls, look into the mirror and see beauty, nappy hair, full lips, nd everything that comes with this.
Stop letting them deface you with their words and hatred. Embrace your ancestors’ gift.
You are mans rib; he is our body for us to love each other in turn, not for you to be a piece of or a bed for the night that he can sleep on, you need to learn, and I am here to teach.
Black girl, I used to be you, so heres your first lesson, love yourself if no one else will.


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