My grandmother once told me that nothing sounded sweeter than

“Jesus love me” coming from my lips –

I was so blissfully unaware of the weight of her words.

I didn’t know that when she rocked me to sleep, singing “Maw-maw

loves you, daddy loves you, momma loves you, sweetie pie”

She was actually sending tiny pieces of her soul through my ears

straight to her heart.

She left me with a heart broken, but I am somehow living with a

heart mended.

She found the cracks and filled them with her own.

I am not only her blood –

I am her legacy.

And I am left with a job to do.

She left me here to create –

in more ways than one.

I can create entire civilizations –

Birth them. Nourish them. Teach them.

My grandmother was a teacher –

of students. And me.

She taught me that while I can not logistically create

these entire civilizations on my own

I do not have to accept a partner that does not see value in more

than just the dripping honey between my thighs.

I am not just a warm place to lay your hands.

I am not a machine –

Made to pro-create.

My body is a vessel.

A vessel filled with knowledge –

to teach entire nations.

A womb –

to create entire nations.

Muscles –

to build entire nations.

My grandmother left me with a heart –

half hers, half mine –

with a purpose.

I am meant to create.

I am meant to teach.

I am meant for value.

And who am I to rest whenever there are nations – divided by privilege,

and melanin, and languages.

How can I lay down my hear when the very principles that my

grandmother taught me –

through hugs in the cold food aisle followed by stories of men becoming

grate lawyers and doctors and fathers –

Despite not having anything to eat but the school lunches and shared

snacks that she brought for the class with them in mind.

See, she couldn’t always remember me at the end, but she always

remembered her students.

Not just the ones born with privilege dripping down their bibs.

She created.

She taught.

She built.

So that I didn’t have to live in a world divided by race, religion, sexual

orientation.

She didn’t want a special set of stairs

built for some to reach the top with ease.

She simply wanted access to the same staircase for everyone.

I am not just a pretty face

A honey pot.

I am a creator.

I am a teacher.

I am a small piece in the bridge to equality.

Building the future.

-In my grandmother’s memory

I am not a small spill on aisle 4 –

A broken jar of olives.

I am punctured steel –

Spewing hazardous waste into the largest body

of water known to man.

A mess too big to clean on your own.

And I will haunt you.

I want you to see me in your daughter’s

face when she turns 17 –

That’s the age you attempted to take away

my voice, in case you forgot.

I hope you see me in every single boy that

takes her out.

I hope you’re afraid that she might be tossed

around like a rag doll in their bed –

unable to say no.

I do not wish this for her.

I don’t want her to know what it feels like to be

stripped of all dignity underneath men she hardly knows

while they do blow in the bathroom and casually high five.

But I want you to be afraid.

I want you to see it every time you close your fucking eyes.

I want the image to break you down to your core.

I want it to ruin you –

like you tried to ruin me.

You see, men like you think women like me are disposable.

You washed your hands of me.

You washed your hands of the blood that you drew when you

forced yourself into my drunken body.

You washed your hands of me –

But I never got the chance to wash away the smell of your

swear on my skin and the feel of your hands.

The stench of your hot breath as you demand that I “watch

my fucking teeth.”

That stuck with me –

like a rusty nail in a swollen piece of wood.

They have stained my skin.

I will carry them with me forever.

I once saw them as a burden too heavy for me to carry.

Now they are the fuel to my fire.

I will burn myself into your memories.

I will make sure that you carry the thought of me forever.

-Abuse