I was born where leaves held witness. Where a young girl became mother with no applause, And the banana grove cradled my first scream. I bled before I spoke. I burnt before I walked. And they named it a sickle cell crisis— But I call it origin. My first pain did not ask for permission. […]
“My First Crisis Is Not My Last Word” Read More »
The hospital smells like bleach and half-mended prayers. Mama’s hands rest on my ankle—swollen again—and I pretend not to wince. I’ve learned to treat pain like an old friend who overstays their welcome: nod, breathe, endure. They call it sickle cell disorder in charts and whispers. I call it the thief of mornings. It robs
Saltwater Between My Bones Read More »
A genetic twist, a shape so sharp and bent. You rage silently in my body and cause the pain. You quietly rip my body to pieces, giving me invisible scars. You take away dreams, hope. But I still have the strength and resilience to fight you and believe you/me, I will have the last
A letter to My frienemy Read More »