Why do people cling to the box of what a black artist should be? 

Stifling them to the narrative of their past and the pain of their present. Why must I scream the song of my oppressor into the blackness of the void? Why can’t I dream a dream once dreamt? Why can’t I paint a story told to me by my ancestors? One that I don’t have the English tongue to describe. One that f l o w s   like rivers from my spirit onto the canvas. 

I have many stories inside of me. Many I don’t understand until they are already told. I want to share them. I want the freedom of this. The liberation to freely express what lies within me without the restraints of what I’m told I “should” be.

 I am black. I am woman. I am everchanging. 

I am one who comes with heavily packaged luggage and the heart of a tender girl. I am one who shields herself from those who tell her to dim her light. Who tell her to “h u s h” because she doesn't have all the words yet.

I want to share me. All of me. Especially the parts that I don't understand yet. 

I am me and I am free