AFROMATIONS
Melanin stands before the mirror slow,
where doubt once tried to softly grow,
loud whispers to your crown of night,
“You are my root, my breath, my light.”
“My coils are galaxies tightly spun,
each curl a story never undone,
each strand remembers drums and rain,
and songs that traveled through our pain.”
“They said be smaller, smoother, straight,
as if my texture carried weight
too heavy for a world afraid
of how my ancestors were made.”
But still you speak with your voice made strong.
“You have been right when they were wrong.
You rise like branches toward the sun.
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My living proof I’m not undone.”
“I see my roots in your shape,
their strength no silence could escape,
tight braids like a maze, their curls were flame, and every spiral speaks their name.”
“You are the crown I will not hide,
the place my history lives inside,
the softness they could never take,
the power they could never break.”
“And when the world forgets my worth,
I’ll touch you to feel my sacred birth,
my roots reach deeper than their fear,
my beauty louder every year.”
So now you smile, your spirit free,
and let your Afro simply be.
Not just your hair, but truth made known.
Now say,
“My hair is the crown to my throne.”
