As I sit on the floor with tears at my feet, I pluck.
I want to unroot every loaded term I’ve ever heard from the matted dirt in my brain, especially the ones that hurt.
When my hands face my eyes, the prickles I’ve removed from my synapses lie cold in my palm.
Nigger— it no longer whips my bones and hangs my blood dry.
Bitch— my vagina remains unsettled.
Crazy— the anxiety traveling through my body doesn’t run and hide under blankets of shame for hours passed the legal eight.
Loud— my big, beautiful lips don’t chafe and blister with anger.
Unreligious— every cell in my body does it’s own unique dance without fear of awakening the angels; freedom.
I am now plucking faster, yanking at every root until there’s nothing left but bald. When I have achieved this, I look at myself in the mirror.
Wow, you. Here you are so untouched.
Then I step aside and watch the whole thing explode into something beautiful, so full of light and love. I inch closer, pick up the pieces and swallow each one like bits of alfalfa sprout.
Grow in my belly, grow so strong until society is no longer your trigger.
Written by: Flose Boursiquot, July 6th