I often find myself at a crossroads

Destined to be forever in the middle until I’ve come to decide which social construct

I wish to identify with

Like arbitrary subject selection my core subjects became

Gender conformity

Minoring in

Internalised misogyny

Straight identification

Which unbeknownst to me was not my idea of self-identification

In my self-discovery, I stumbled across the term feminism: a word that has sparked discussion, garnered negative connotation

Feminism was her music box

A song of solitude that washed away the pain that tainted her skin like leopard print

Feminism was her keepsake that reminded her what it was to be a woman

Woman is as woman does

Feminism was her reminder that another woman’s beauty was not the absence of her own in an arena that successfully pitched woman against woman

Feminism was Beyoncé’s girls who run the world and unapologetic anthem in a man’s world

Feminism on the days I don’t feel beautiful in Lauryn Hill singing more powerful than two Cleopatras

Feminism is a million other black girls just like me looking for representation