What woman here is so enamored of her own oppression that she cannot see her heel print upon another woman's face?

Somedays, if bitterness were a whetstone, I could be sharp as grief.

Attend me, hold me in your muscular flowering arms, protect me from throwing any part of myself away.

For each of us as women, there is a dark place within, where hidden and growing our true spirit rises, beautiful and tough as chestnut stanchions against our nightmare of weakness. Within these deep places, each one of us holds an incredible reserve of creativity and power, of unexamined and unrecorded emotion and feeling

Hatred is a death wish for the hated, not a life wish for anything else.

We have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit because what was native has been stolen from us, the love of Black women for each other.

The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticized sensation.