To Love Ourselves

Why can't we love ourselves,

without the inevitable response of: "Don't you mean we're ALL beautiful?"
 
Are we all beautiful when you type in "Beautiful Women" on Google and see 385 million search results of beautiful White women? 
 
Are we all beautiful when Victoria Secret models strut down the runway and the only Black one I see is as light as my PALM?
Are we all beautiful when people have told me, "You're pretty for a Black girl." 
 
Or are we all beautiful when young Black girls grow up wishing to strip the dark mahogany skin they were given,
and list every other race they're mixed with to avoid saying the word BLACK- are we all beautiful???
 
...when you flip through the pages of Vogue, Cosmo, & Entertainment Weekly and no one notices just how little color there really is
 
because White is the norm and when I painted all my people brown in highschool art class kids would ask me,
"Why are they all Black?" without taking a second glance at their page.
WHY CANT WE BE ART? 
 
Why are we the punchline of every "ratchet joke" online? 
Why do Black men feel like they've won a trophy with other women, but lost with US
creating a fire in our soul so thick that it bubbles up to the peak but we have to suppress it for fear of being bitter Black women...
 
Why can't we be beautiful?! 
 
Why can't we cherish ourselves in the face of Eurocentric beauty standards? 
Why can't we love our beauty without it being hated or imitated- I'm talking to you Iggy Azalea. 
Why is it ghetto on us, but urban chic on White women in Vogue?
Why can't we love ourselves? 
 
So the next time you hear the words:
"black is beautiful..."
 
from our hair, to our noses, to our lips, hips, ass, and thighs, no matter the size...
you fucking accept it.
 
This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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