Yasmine Tadross

Anger is as temporary as a bandage that you put on a scar, It hurts for a day or two, You are amped up for another few days and it ultimately fades. Then it is business as usual. It never makes you feel the pain. Rage is like a scar that has been engraved in ou since you were born. Being told that the second you come out of the woum (whether biological or metaphorical), that your body was never yours, to begin with Told you are not worth loving. You see if Black women were loved as much as Cardi B, we wouldn't have to be turned to stone. That only who care about black trans women are black trans women. It is the days where I can't see my own reflection. Rage has been portrayed as ugly as Medusa, no one shall look at her or else you get turned to stone, yet for girls like me, we have already been shattered. Rage is not to look away from or suppress, it is beautiful as a date tree on The Nile as bears it's sweetness.  Medusa was never ugly, she i

When I think of Femmehood,  I think of girls like me, who may not have the money to stealth, or the resources to drag it up. But we are limitless.⠀ ⠀ We are the ones that create divine futures for each other out of the scraps and rubble left for us.   The ones that create riots that are bigger than space and time.  A movement to uphold the notion that liberating Black trans womxn is liberation for all of us.  Girls like us understand that femmehood is lineage and kinship, not a body part.  We recognize the majority of the world disposes of us, but we are anointed.  We are our ancestors’ wildest dreams I don't want a world where Black Trans Lives  just matter That our histories and our presence are praised like shrines; in which the offerings are given back to the altar 100 fold.

The girl that was denied, Denied her ability to exist. The one that felt like she was either 8 years ahead or 15 years behind in her social development. She was always the object, but never the subject. Her blood, sweat, and tears were always overlooked and never praised. She was either a bullet train going 1000miles an hour, with no breaks, barely a grasp of her pulse, and never could plant her feet on solid ground; Or stagnate like a statue, sitting and waiting for someone to observe her. The girl is enraged, She has enough anger to become a hurricane, To reck havoc on everything and everyone that denied her being. To make this land a permanent wasteland. Everybody of water, soil, and forest would be dried up and deteriorate. She figured in casting a permanent dry spell over this land, every person who denied her mind, body, spirit, labor, and emotion shall never escape.   Where she can finally claim herself, Where she can finally go to bed without crying to sleep, She can access lov

My Sweet Melancholy,  You are rare. You are the type of girl that can't be replaced.  The one that will always be an inconvenience to the masses. You are cheerful and warm by day, but after every meeting, headline, and black body that dies for existing, you turn somber. You have the ability to be brilliant off of 2% battery life. Sweet Melancholy, You constantly grieve because the boys that you romantically like will never come, because you often desire the ones that will hurt you the most. In this world, we are taught that love will cost you, rather than be free. But right now, when everything is so isolated, womanhood being negotiated, and people are dying faster than leaves falling from a tree in early autumn, people holding you sounds nice. Sweet Melancholy, Everything that you are feeling is real. You are crushing on a black boy while grieving the loss of Ahmoud Arbery. You are angry at the world, yet angry at yourself. You feel like you have been trying to catch up to everyon