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[radically-shannon]

This body is my battlefield

Just beyond the edges of my shoulder blades Where bone and flesh meet, there’s a spot a knot where the tension builds stifling blood flow, restricting movement, shooting cascading ripples of pain across my back radiating down my spine seeping into my sinew This spot is the epicenter of my suffering, a seismic swell of trauma, crashing just below the skin From a single point, the power spreads, creeping along my curves The damage, vast and devastating, swallows the spot I no longer feel the source, but its outgrown tendrils They pass over my softness, leaving scars ravaging tissue, whittling bone, souring blood This body, sculpted by divine despair, carries an orchestra of movement, thundering forces ripping through my DNA hoping, fortifying against invisible invaders.

This body is my battlefield.

[radically-shannon]

The Onion really ain’t fucking around.

[radically-shannon]

Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word love here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace-not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.

-James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

[radically-shannon]

Daily Mantra

I repeat this to myself in the mirror, first thing in the morning and the last thing before I climb into bed, every day.

The notion that you are unlovable because you refuse to settle for small love is a patriarchal life.

That you only exist to lose weight and labor for others is a racist, capitalist lie. 

That you are only worthy of love when you diminish yourself for the comfort of others is a colonial lie.

I’m worthy because I’m here. I’m lovable because I’m here. I’m Black, I’m female, I’m broke, and I’m here. 

I love you.

[radically-shannon]

[radically-shannon]

An introduction

I am from journal pages creased with wear, cool slathers of cocoa butter, and succulents in lush shades of green and cool purple tones.

I am from a cramped apartment engulfed in a sea of lights, museums, and majestic architecture.

I am from the Easter lilies that guard my grandmother’s front door.

I am from boisterous celebrations with shared stories of family lore, triumphs, and struggles.

I am from my mother, my mother’s mother, and her mother before her, each of whom has gifted me her wisdom, heart, and drive.

I am from passionate debates, one-room churches shaking with praise on Sunday mornings, and electric celebrations that bring together cousins from all branches of the family tree.

From Black feminists, like Audre Lorde, who told me that women are powerful and dangerous, or Toni Morrison who said that I should write the story that I want to read.

I am from Baltimore, Opa-Locka, Berlin, The Big Yellow House, Holy Temple, Frenchtown, and Albany

I am from spicy beef patties with golden flakes that shower your lap in deliciousness; and fresh conch salad with tart juice that runs down your lips when you eat it

I have been and always will be a disrupter, a fighter.