Elegance as Resistance

I don’t want to be strong today.

I don’t want to give grace to a man who only remembers me at midnight.

I don’t want to keep being “the better person” while fragile white women build ladders out of my silence.

I don’t want to sit through another dinner with a man who finds my honesty threatening, but his mediocrity… natural?

I want to cry on the phone without apologizing for the static in my voice.

I want to be messy and still be read as soft.

I want to be complicated and still be held.

But I know the rules.

I know how to put on the approachable earrings. How to smooth my voice into something that won’t get me reported.

I know how to lower my eyes—just enough not to offend, but not disappear.

I know how to line my mouth with grace even when my pride’s split like a busted lip.

I’ve learned how to turn bruises into posture.

They call it elegance.

But let’s be real—it's not just style.

This is armor. This is strategy. This is resistance.

Because the truth is: I’m tired.

I’m tired of being the one who always “knows better.”

Tired of deleting the paragraph and sending the emoji instead.

Tired of watching men date women they don’t respect and ignore women they fear they can’t impress.

Tired of being skipped, doubted, then studied like I’m a thesis. Never cited.

Tired of walking into rooms where I am the only mirror.

Of having to prove I belong again and again, even though I was dragged here by cosmic energy.

Of performing chill, classy, unbothered, while inside I’m screaming:

I’m not just presentable—I’m prophetic.

I’m not just pretty—I’m principled.

And I’m especially tired of being called too loud, too blunt, too much, too aggressive, too Black?

Of being asked to shrink my heat so the room doesn’t sweat.

Because the truth is: I’m not angry—I’m awake.

I’m not aggressive—I’m fluent in boundaries and not afraid to speak them aloud.

And if honesty burns, then holiness might look like murder in my eyes.

I am elegant. But I am not at ease.

Because sometimes,

I want to slam the door like it owes me reparations.

I want to sentence the silence. Lay hands on lying tongues.

I want to stop curating my composure like it’s couture.

But I don’t.

Because I was raised to “rise above.”

To make my pain look model. Grit.

To make my skin reflect light, even from the shadow.

To represent.

To make my father proud.

To make my country proud.

So yes, I wear elegance like misted rose water—

But don’t confuse the fragrance for forfeit.

---

Familiar? Don’t just like this. Don’t just read and nod.

Share it. Talk back. Send it to the girls.

Comment. Whisper. Scream.

Tell me your version.

I’ll meet you there