poem : we have come to speak our history / and wake the marrow in your bones

there’s a warmth in her

voice. old grief, aged pain,

echoing voices on floorboards i

walk again, through her feet, in

her legs.

 

these are your slave-women

these are your fields

these are your homes

and untouchable brethren

these are the waves they dragged us over

this is the sun that cracked open

our scars

smell whip-leather / smell baby-blood / smell your death in the setting sun

and rage.

 

we have come to speak our history / and wake the marrow in your bones | talia b. ; @raggedhearts

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