shoutout to the women who raised me

The women who raised me were ruthless and fearless with their demons; 
they preyed on those who opposed me & prayed for me 
"three times a day" because teenagers are "too full of emotions," they would say. 

The ladies who raised me had no room for mood swings; 
instead, they saw these emotions as colours 
& advised me to focus on the stark contrasts 
rather than the grey areas because "when the time is right, you'll know." 
This merely left me confused because I could see peach, burnt orange, and blue. 
Burnt orange stuck out because it reflected my wrath 
like the image of mercury burning across the sun, 
which made sense. 
There were occasions when I could even see the entire spectrum at once.

The women who nurtured me did their best with the time they had; 
they occupied space, laughed frequently 
& loudly, 
but when they cried, the bitterness descended like an avalanche of dark clouds that was too much for the town to bear. 
The women who raised me made me think, 
sometimes too much. 

The women who raised me embodied love that was boundless by neither space nor time. 
They taught me about loss, 
a step-by-step guide to dealing with grief - a consequence of love itself.

So hats off to the ancestors in my step who forewarned me of those mornings 
when it seems like nothing moves—no birds are singing, no leaves are rustling, no sun is shining, and the skyline is nothing but grey. 

ah, grey.

Shoutout to the day I first noticed the grey areas, 
my initiation into the School of Hard Knocks, 
& to the year of becoming
shoutout tolife!!