until we are no longer ashamed of our random breakdowns that we refuse to give name to,
until we no longer hush our children when they ask us why we cry in our dreams,
until we no longer hide our tears behind these loud laughters that have come to describe us as strong people who laugh in serious situations as a coping mechanism,
until we understand that there is no such thing as strong women,
that our mothers stayed prisoners for too long for us to deem them strong for not leaving spaces that did not nourish them, for watering black men who loved them dry, silent and empty,
for watering plants on barren lands,
until we accept that we are born from depressed mothers, depressed black mothers who too were raised by black depressed women, raised by black depressed mothers,
who loved black depressed men, we cannot progress.
We will always keep building these falling buildings that we will always remind us of our failures,
we will always attract depressed loveless lovers who will drain us to fill themselves up, forgive them,
we will always love ourselves wrong,
until we are no longer frightened at the mirror and the voices in our head,
until we understand that there are boxes that are not meant to fit us, desperate as we are for them,
until we are aware that life will have us walk to and knock on doors that are not open for us just to teach us lessons we didn’t think we needed,
until we are no longer afraid of our own demons, giving them names, one by one, sitting with them on the table over dinner and coming to terms with our ruins so we can love our ruins even if they are everything we promised we’d never allow of ourselves because life has dealt us these cards and our black mothers have long taught us that we must embrace the hand that feed us always.