There Was No Funeral

One of my favorite poems:
"This Woman"
by Alysia Harris

The line that gives me chills and fills my eyes up with tears:

"To all the women who have been

Pried open,

Propped up,

And Jadaposed:

I'm sorry

There was no funeral for the going out of your smile

And the coming in of strangers."

No, there was no funeral. There was no funeral, and for years, there was no recognition. I was reminded that the louder I yelled, the more worthless I was underneath my insistence that I. WAS. WORTH. SOMETHING.

I dreamed about strangers who would quietly peel off my armor, look at me, hold me, and see who I am.

Just see me.

Not tell me who I am. Not define me. Just give me some credit.

Strangers who might love me for the blood on my hands and my clothes, might see my life and aspirations as a work in progress, might offer me the soft, quiet benefit of the doubt, the security, the unwavering assurance and peaceful extended arms that would have allowed me to relax, set down my burden, and rest.