to abide by the rules of the Black woman is to survive.

after 7 years strung to mechanics, my mother dared to disconnect and survive. for 17 days longer.

despite the countdown, I’d imagine she remembered what it felt like to mount her motorcycle. gliding across hilltops and valleys, leather matching pavement, the closest she felt with god.

to pride me a Black woman, I’d have to reinvent myself. more fembot, less they/them. more resilient, less “yes, daddy.”

despite the cruelty, I’d imagine she forgave me for awaiting her magic. leg locked, relaxer buzzed, fingers crunched. there was no miracle in making her stay.

so why would we both resist?

to pride us Black femmes* is to believe we’d be the revolution that saved each other.

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