When a woman speaks her truth, she breathes fire.
A fire that burns down the lies
Scorches through façades and
Lights up the dark nights living in her soul.
When a woman speaks her truth
She b$tch slaps shame, regret, and self-sacrifice.
Her tongue becomes a flame.
Her voice, gasoline.
She spits truth like red-hot embers burning down
Generations of “making it work,”
“Making do,” and “overcoming.”
When a woman speaks her truth,
It serves as alchemy revealing the charlatans
In her life. Her truth burns them to a crisp.
Truth. Is. Fire.
It purifies.
It refines.
It shapes.
It destroys.
It illuminates.
And just like fire, truth can be turned up or down.
The difference between a campfire and a forest fire is rage.
It can keep you warm or it can ravage all the strongholds
You hold as truths.
They are not truths.
They are bondage.
Taming you.
Containing you.
Shackling us to other people’s approval.
Other people’s agendas.
Other people’s Gods.
White women roar—it’s heard as power.
Black women breathe fire—it’s heard as anger.
Truth is fire.
It is audacious.
It is bold.
It is unapologetic.
The truth will set you free
But first, it will annihilate the
House of cards you call your life.
When a woman tells her truth
She is a fire-breathing dragon
Soaring about the mayhem of her life and
Pouring lick after lick of burning hot flames
On to the illusion, she called happiness.
My life had to burn to the ground
So I could find me again.
Create me anew.
From ash to clay.
From clay to dirt.
From dirt to I Am.
When my life imploded
I folded in onto myself. I cocooned.
I thought I would emerge a beautiful butterfly.
I was wrong.
I came back as myself.
My full self.
My whole self.
My authentic self.
I came back a dragon.
Now, I breathe fire.