No one asks the sky how well it’s holding up. It’s supposed to be up so why question it?
The ocean is seen in the same way; it’s supposed to ebb and flow under the sun’s spotlight while looking up at the clouds for applause.
They are supposed to be strong.
No one hears the boisterous thunder of a storm in the horizon and thinks about the clouds left behind.
Nor do they see a wave and think about the sea foam forced to float along.
Its beauty is impervious to his negativity, not because it’s untouchable, but because it knows it will be radiant regardless. It knows it’s supposed to be strong but still makes time to celebrate the cracks in its protective panoply.
It takes pride in polishing the faults of others without concerns of reciprocity.
It is love personified: a black woman.
Every day your value is short-changed; discredited by men printed on the stolen fruits of your stems. You laugh it off.
Every night the bank of your emotions is depleted from the countless loans approved throughout the day but somehow your reserves are still bountiful for him.
Your mirror reflects the purest essence of life. History has frowned upon you and attempted to scour the “mud” off your face, so you must know by now there’s not a wrinkle in time you can’t survive. Every pore on your body secretes the sweetest nectar, creating a trail of majesty leading directly into the wondrous and most sought after treasures that lie inside.
You can be at your weakest and still be the strongest there is.
Tears from your eyes can enrich an entire village or embattle the same men against each other. Words from your soul can take root in his spine and promote his growth or thorn up his backbone until it shatters itself into nothing but dusted dreams.
The smart will crown you but your humility will not accept his praise because you know he needs it for himself more than you do.
You are a black woman: love personified.
Painter/Artist: Prolific Fruits