I believe that every Black person has a Black voice in our ear, acting as our conscience, checking us if we’re not looking out for other Black people.
For me and my twin, the surprise was not our matching tumors, but that hers was malignant and mine was benign.
The affectations of white anime enthusiasts made me feel fake, confusing my yearning for the language and familiarity I craved.
Why do we need measuring sticks like college and marriage and leaving home to track our worth?
Could knowing his pain impart some truth to my understanding of my own life?
I love to be a leaver. To be the one that steps out into the unknown, even as I am terrified.
My grandmother once told me that bringing bread into a home means that its residents will never go hungry.
I am not half of anything. I am only me, a single whole with multiple truths.