A black girl in Glasgow (Scotland) wrote the following about the dilemma of her existence. She struggles to find that “black man” who will support her, rather than misuse her, and yet, not finding this, she wonders about pairing up with Tarzan, even at the expense of being exploited:
Lol maybe I will…I like to write! Might be a feminist approach maybe you can help me… Once a sensible black woman enters the world of relationships and doesn’t want a dead beat baby daddy or trap star she is seen as being stush, so majority of black men look down on her etc and if they want her its for a link…if she dates a white man she is seen as being a sell out cos she achieving something and don’t wanna date black men no more, but then white men just wanna use her cause its a fantasy thing [about] booty and titties.. That’s my issue right now but its not cause I’m self sufficient but that’s my modern day personified dilemma kind of
Another girl wrote this piece and sent it to me. Much later, she revealed that it was her “suicide” note. At the moment, she is still alive, but maybe, on the inside, she is dead already:
Death presented herself in a purple gown, gold and silver embroidery on the sleeves pretty as picture. Flowers decorated her hair, her long fingers caressed my face wiping away my tears before they rolled down my cheeks. She whispered ‘i’m here’ as I resumed [a] fetal position like the day I was born. Her voice was sweet n comforting, I pulled the trigger, death held me like how my mother held me the day I was born. She looked into my eyes and smiled knowing I had arrived safetly – I was at peace now. I blinked, death, whos face had now become grey n eyes black dropped me down, her fingers that once looked like they could play on the piano a perfect melody to my life were now bloodstained. As my life flashed i realised just like my life [that] i was tricked, lied to once again. It was too late i could escape life but not death.