We hold thunder quietly
In bones that remember the lash,
In hands taught to build kingdoms
From scraps they said were trash.
We smile in rooms that echo
With names we’ve never owned,
Speak soft in spaces hostile
To the rhythm of our tone.
We’re told,
“Be strong. Be grateful. Be still.”
But how do you rest
On a battlefield?
When your tears
Aren’t seen as rain but weakness,
When your rage
Is met with fear not tenderness,
When therapy feels foreign
And prayer becomes performance,
We learn to bury the ache
Like ancestors hid their songs.
But we are not broken.
We are not crazy.
We are tired.
And tired is not a sin.
So this is for the ones
Who stay on the call all night,
Who breathe through panic
And still show up to fight.
This is for the quiet sobs,
The shaky hands, the silent screams,
For the child who learned too early
To tuck away their dreams.
You don’t have to carry
What’s killing you to prove
You’re worthy of being seen,
Worthy of being soothed.
Healing is your right–
Not a privilege, not a prize.
So speak your truth,
Unclench your fists,
Let softness colonize
The parts of you
Still waiting to exhale.
Because being Black
And still breathing
Is resistance.
And choosing joy
Is a radical act
Of existence.