liberation.

Liberation is like a belting guttural song, sung by the nation of a people who know the bellows of sorrow and the rhythms of drums on Sunday morning.

It is my mothers scream, for I am hers.

It is the strength of my back, each vertebrae stacked to slowly raise my chin in pride. Looking upon those who could never understand the hairs that raise upon my skin or the cause of the corners to my lips being raised to the sky.