The apocalypse will be ushered in by Black women.
It’s right here in the book of
forget y’all ungrateful ass bastards.
chapter: im over
verse: this.
//ahem
It is written that in these last days, each and every black woman will collectively say, “fuck it!”
deadass --
those words will actually be uttered,
all at once.
The reverberations of that simultaneous emancipating proclamation will have everyone shook.
Again, I mean this literally, it will be groundbreaking.
Without exception, Black women will be over putting our bodies on the line for everyone else,
and when I tell you we will dance,
baby!
The rhythmic and the rhythmless alike,
Oh! How we will dance!
Sipping daiquiris on the second line,
gleefully shaking off the burden of being society’s mule:
We’ll be done with spending each day going, “no no no don’t do that”
while slapping problematic bullshit out their hands;
done with our Selma fought right being warped by pandering allies
who view us through mammy-colored glasses;
done with entering the room to “hellooooo wet nurse,” fueling every movement,
yet sucked dry before we can taste the benefit.
Anyway-
Everybody else will be standing over the resulting lavalike chasm with Neronian fervor.
They will call on us to extinguish the swelling chaotic blaze,
expecting our usual buckets of sweat to douse the flames.
But we won’t hear them
cause we’ll be electric-sliding to Frankie Beverly & Maze,
liquor glasses held high in our right hand,
hiking up our sundresses with the left.