I have frequently questioned my worth.
I have tried to measure it through friendships, men, money, and clothes.
I have had it measured through grades, opportunities, and speculation.
I have questioned my worth so many times that I have sometimes even questioned my own life.
Because sometimes feelings of unworthiness must flirt with death before everything begins to make sense again—or for the first time at all.
As a black woman, I have been taught that I am undesirable.
I've attempted to make up for that by mirroring white culture.
As a black woman, I have been retaught that I am beautiful.
I’ve spent my days distinguishing between appreciation, fascination, and fetishism.
As a black woman, I have been told that I cannot be a feminist.
I cry when my yell for equity is disregarded by men and women telling me that I am the cause of the destruction of the black community.
As a black woman, I have been told that I am jealous of white and white-passing Latinx women in relationships with black men.
I feel defeated as I am tuned out by someone who accompanies their preference with degradation.