Atlas of Her

From a young age,

I was taught to shrink and to fold myself neatly into white spaces.

I’ve poured myself into molds to make different shapes —

smoothed my edges,

tightened my skin,

folded my truth into something easier to swallow.

Because the world prefers me hollow — my tongue clipped, my fire dimmed, my history buried.

I walk into rooms

my skin announcing me before I do.

Chairs shift

eyes measure

a body occupying a space

that is already speaking louder than words.

In streets,

my body becomes evidence

before it was ever human.

I’ve learned to move quietly,

to measure my laughter in teaspoons,

to keep my anger tucked 

beneath ribs that have no business holding it. 

My skin has known

the weight of eyes

that measure before they see,

the pressure of history

carried in the curve of my spine,

in the cadence of my voice.

They twist me into caricatures, 

flatten my complexity into what they can sell or fear, erasing the woman I am —

the woman I am becoming. 

But my hips, my hair, my hands

carry the memory of mothers,

their survival stitched into every curve.

Their songs humming in my veins,

their fire pulsing in my bones.

I do not fold anymore.

i do not shrink to fit their spaces.

I take up the air they rationed.

I name my history loud.

I claim my lineage,

my body, my voice, my fire.

I am storm.

I am root.

I am pulse.

I am Black womanhood—

uncontained, unbroken,

and luminous in every room I enter.