The Strong Black Woman Is Dead

She died from having the multiple births of children she never really wanted but was forced to have by the strangling morality of those around her. She died from being a mother at 15 and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45. She died from being dragged down and sat upon by un-evolved women posing as sisters.

She died from pretending the life she was living was a Kodak moment instead of a 20th century, post-slavery nightmare. She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful, just to have a man around the house. She died from lack of orgasms because she never learned what made her body happy and no one took the time to teach her
And sometimes, when she found arms that were tender, died because those arms belonged to someone of the same gender.

She died from sacrificing herself for everybody and everything when what she wanted to do was be a singer, a dancer, or some other magnificent other.She died from lies of omission because she didn't want to "bring the black man down." She died from race memories of being snatched and raped and snatched and sold and snatched and bred and snatched and whipped and snatched and worked to death.

She died from tributes from her counterparts who should have been matching her efforts instead of showering her with dead words and empty songs.
She died from myths that would not allow her to show weakness without being chastised by the lazy and hazy. She died from hiding her real feelings until they became hard and bitter enough to invade her womb and breasts like angry tumors.
She died from always lifting something from heavy boxes to refrigerators.

The strong black woman is DEAD

She died from the punishments received from being honest about life, racism and men. She died from being called a bitch for being verbal, a dyke for being assertive and a whore for picking her own lovers. She died for never being enough of what men wanted, or being too much for the men she wanted.

She died from being too black and died again for not being black enough.
She died from castration every time somebody thought of her as only a woman, or treated her like less than a man. She died from being misinformed about her mind, her body and the extent of her royal capabilities. She died from knees pressed too close together because respect was never part of the foreplay being shoved at her.

She died from loneliness in birthing rooms and abandonment in abortion centers. She died of shock in courtrooms where she sat, alone, watching her children being legally lynched. She died in bathrooms with her veins busting open with self-hatred and neglect.

She died in her mind, fighting life, racism and men, while her body was carted away and stashed in a human warehouse for the spiritually mutilated. And sometimes when she refused to die, when she just refused to give in, she was killed by the lethal images of blond hair, blue eyes and flat butts; rejected by the O.J.'s, the Quincy's, the Tiger's and the Poitier's.

Sometimes she was stomped to death by racism and sexism, executed by hi-tech ignorance while she carried the family in her belly, the community on her head, and the race on her back!