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The rage of a tired black woman
Rage.
Fury.
A constant burning anger.
A rage stemmed from generations of those who have come before me
An inheritance we have the right to own
Something passed through each black child born
One that clings to our skin and bones
A communal experience we share alone
Every time a black child comes home from school
Fallen tears from racial slurs
Another wave of anger flows
When another black man is shot to death
His last breath used to beg
A fury only us can feel embeds
One that leaves us tired, not for bed
But one of more sorrow instead
One that wishes for the system so old-fashioned to be replaced
Or a black woman who ends up dead
Laying in a hospital bed
In a pool of red
Whose pain ignored and untreated
From a prejudice institution
A fear bred from black motherhood
A torn thread of decision
Of a yearning to have children
And the fear of death before they ever met
This rage that we feel
Is not met by empathy, but instead
With the stereotype of aggressiveness
And being gaslit into psychosis
Being told we are 'too dramatic'
Then told to stop playing in the playground of victimhood
When it is they who placed us there
We are tired of being forced into a lifetime of despair
Where our existence is fated to a life so unfair
Copyright ©
Layla Riley-Hill
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