Chya Creates

Stronger Than Iron

BY Chya

I am a strong woman.

And even more, a strong Black woman.

The stronger I become, the more my body breaks down.

The more resilient I become, the more my soul is sold. 

I am the next greatest thing to AI or even a robot.

I don’t succumb to psychological stress.

I don’t wither under physical and emotional abuse.

I don’t lash out over injustice.

I don’t sigh of exhaustion when I am given extra work.

I don’t ask for help – I can do it myself.

I am strong.

And even more, a strong Black woman.

I can handle anything thrown at me.

I can provide for a man.

I can smile while in pain.

I can go back to work after giving birth.

I can endure my ethnic features nobody likes.

I can persist – even your responsibility – and take it as my own.

Because I am strong.

And even more a strong Black woman.

After I endure all this, I go home.

And soak in the tub, 

let myself slip under the water,

In a means to wash off all my responsibilities.

Then I sit in my room and cry for hours,

As my tears drop to my shirt –

almost burning a hole through it,

As I’ve held them for so long.

I take off my shirt to examine my back.

It hurts to stand up.

I look in the mirror

and see generations of women on my back – 

who I carry.

An imaginary weight I can’t let go of,

because it is my responsibility to be strong.

I can no longer see myself.

I am a collage of previous generations

and strangers expectations

with the emotions of everyone.

I often go outside

 and put my hands on the pavement

when it’s the hottest it can be during the day-

and let them sit there.

And they bleed everytime 

as my skin burns off.

But I am so far gone,

I can’t even feel anything

 as they burn under the sun.

The only way I can see I’m human

 is because I bleed, 

just like everyone else does.