I am part Black and pieces of an empowered woman.
I am pieces of Robinson/Holder, and part Black love.
I am part Caribbean and ancestral pieces of the Motherland.
I am part British covered in pieces of -isms.
I’m part lover and pieces of a fighter that lost the battle.
I’m partial to cry and partial to laugh even when it hurts.
Sometimes I part live and other times pieces of me fade away and die.
Some say that I am part strong, while others say I shine light into their broken pieces.
If you were to ask me, I would tell you that I merely survive, my lungs are still breathing warm air into parts of me.
Some days I’m full of hope (part optimistic, part filled with joy) with pieces of yesterday’s lesson ringing in my ears.
Other days I’m free falling, into the pieces of myself yet to be known; allowing part of me to heal.
I am yet to be crushed into a million pieces, and yet to form part ashes to part dust.
I am parts and pieces of many things. I am part of Me and pieces of Us.
I part of the She / the Her / the Now / the Must.