I grew up around women who were never enough,
Men would call them “too much” women,
Women who adorned themselves in gold,
would use the higher power in libation to bless themselves and partners,
But it was never enough,
These women who dressed their hair in flowers,
who swung their hips to the heat of the summer,
Casbalanca would be hidden between legs,
and hair would be swung back and fourth as feet hit the ground,
Prayers would be found leaving mouths and body,
as these women would form rituals for the village,
But they would be seen as ‘too much’ women,
Never enough for them,
never good enough for those who were soulless,
Women who read books, who educated themsleves on the history of land,
of Power, of holy scriptures,
Who fed themselves green, orange and purple,
Led themselves through torture and still kept smiling,
Yet despite the beauty of the knowledge they held,
Intimidation led the men astray and decided to shun these women,
No matter the love they gave, no matter how open hearts were,
It seemed it was always too much, and at the same time never enough.
It seems I too am becoming a “too much” woman,
A “never good enough” woman,
yet I know the power I hold lays inked between my fingers,
lays laced in my lips, and waist,
lays in the orbit of my eyes,
I know my grace lays between me and my Lord,
I know what horrors I’ve seen,
and I know how i’ve turned hell into paradise,
No man, nor woman will ever tell me I am never enough anymore,
What is too much?
I am me.