A Black Girl Wrote This

A poetry series by demetria

This series is for the ones who were told to stay quiet, stay strong, stay small.

Unfolding Out Loud is the unraveling of silence, survival, softness, and strength in real time. These poems hold the weight of what was never said—and the fire of saying it now. It’s healing in motion. It’s soft and angry. Sacred and tired.

It’s the voice you find when no one gave you one.

For the ones still becoming.
For the ones who cry and still carry.
For the ones who made it anyway.

I Did Not Tell My Mother

A poem about silence, survival, and breaking cycles out loud.

---

There are wounds we carry so long they start to feel like personality traits. This piece is about the kind of childhood that teaches you to hide your softness, the kind of mothering that confuses control for care, and the power of finally naming what hurt you. I did not tell my mother—but I’m telling the world now. For the daughters still trying to make peace with ghosts. For the cycle-breakers. For me.

---

I did not tell my mother
that her words weighed more than the house I grew up in.

That every time she said I was weak,
something inside me stopped blooming.

I did not tell my mother
that I learned to rehearse strength
the way other kids rehearsed spelling words—
out loud, over and over,
until I forgot how to even say the word ‘soft’.

I did not tell my mother
that I stopped crying around her
because she’d wear my sadness like a joke
and laugh too loud for anyone to hear me breaking.

That she called me spineless—
but never stopped to think
how she was the one who cut me down.

I did not tell my mother
that material things don’t mean love.

That vacations can’t bandage emotional absence.
That new shoes don’t hug you when the lights are off.

That knowing how to match your outfit with your jewelry
doesn’t teach you how to regulate your emotions.

I did not tell my mother
that being judged was never the same as being raised.

That she offered me her expectations,
but never her guidance.
Her rules, but never her warmth.

I did not tell my mother
that I felt neglected,
even in a full house.

That I felt unloved,
even when the gifts were expensive.

That I felt invisible,
even when I was always in the room.

I did not tell my mother
that her brand of independence
was just loneliness in a power suit.

That her fear of needing anyone
became the voice in my head
telling me to never trust love, friendship, anyone.

That she taught me people disappoint you—
but never taught me what to do when they didn’t.

I did not tell my mother
that her narcissism left me
looking for mirrors in other people’s approval.

That I didn’t want to be her.
But I didn’t know how to be me.

I did not tell my mother
that every time she mocked my depression,
I learned how to smile through panic attacks.

That she called me dramatic,
when I was actually drowning.

And I still don’t tell her.

At 34,
they still bring it up at family dinners—
how sensitive I was.
How I cried too much.

And I laugh.
Loud enough to keep from choking.
Soft enough to make it through dessert.

I did not tell my mother
that I parent my children with the love I never got.

That I teach them to name their feelings
because mine were always renamed weakness.

I did not tell my mother
that healing didn’t come from her,
but in spite of her.

That silence was my first trauma.
And breaking it?
My first act of rebellion.

I did not tell my mother.

But maybe,
one day,
my daughter will never need to heal from me.