Weary (Sometimes.)

Sometimes, I would like to lay down the sword and the shield. Sometimes, I’d like to be held with no expectations, just to know what it feels like.
Sometimes, I’d like to show you the tender and best parts of myself without fear that the sharpest instrument will be used to destroy those very parts.
Really, I’d like to just be, sometimes. Instead, I am forced to walk around with this scowl on my face, daring you to get closer, while simultaneously hoping, wishing, praying that you would.
Sometimes they say “Black Girl, why you so angry?”, and I have no single real reply, yet my throat is congested with howls pain and rage that I cannot articulate.
Sometimes, though, I think of not being so hard, but then I look out my window…I turn on the TV; I walk down a busy street. I see violence against those who look just like me, degradation, fear and loathing. So, sometimes, I just stay inside.
My ears are inundated by catcalls, by misogyny, by…the silence of those who should have been my protectors; yet instead, they are the ones with the loudest voices and the most clamorous silence.
Sometimes, I get weary from holding all I own between my shoulder blades with no reprieve.
But then, I just cover it all with more cement, more mortar, more bricks, steel girders (my own backbone, really), and I just go on my weary way.