The weight of my skin wakes me up every single morning. I am jolted by the day begging me to be quieter + less black. I crawl out of bed pulling the hopes of my ancestors from under years of self-degradation praying that my parent’s trauma doesn’t trip me up today. Trusting that my vernacular is articulate enough to get your attention because most days I am injured by the explanations; bruised by the shape-shifting + code switching. Transforming to fit into something worthy of being acceptable + magnificent. Grasping the understanding that we wouldn’t return or recover. Reminded that being glorious is dangerous, especially when you are black. Warriors must walk lightly taking into consideration their gifts as well as their frailties. We hail from things that are fascinating, but up close can be misconstrued as ice sculptures; gorgeous + emotionless.