On being a lot, enough and everything. 

Marvelling at muscle memory telling you to mourn but, you don’t. You twerk in your best friend’s mirror and drink tea and laugh ’til late. “Coming home to yourself”, they call it. See how beautiful your skin has become with all this good sun? This chemical warfare? This money? Still, you adore your face. Marvelling at muscle memory telling you to mourn but, you don’t. You take selfies. You brown girl wonder. You beam. You think on Kelis. You read. You spin fictions in your mind because you are always spinning fictions in your mind. You play with fabric and flowers. You count down the days until you are a body of post-thesis paradise. Muscle memory pulls at you to make of Monday a mourning but this is you (it’s always been you) so the first rule is your first tattoo, you glorious little thing. That and nothing else. ♡

Author: Nova

I'm an Anthropology postgrad or baby master anthropologist, poet and writer. Occasional badass too. Patricia Smith says: "Say a prayer and start slinging" - I do.

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