Let me say this with my full chest
and excellent diction:
I am not confused
about the caliber of my own brilliance.
I know when I have done something rare.
I know when the work is formidable.
I know when the sentence has marrow,
when the vision has architecture,
when the offering enters the room
with perfume, posture, and paperwork.
I am a rockstar in everything I touch.
The poem.
The prose.
The candle.
The altar.
The business.
The book.
The prayer.
The pitch.
The silence after I have said
exactly enough.
And still, here come the detractors,
all querulous and poorly moisturized,
trying to convince me
that what I created
is not great.
How very banal of them.
How tedious.
How gauche.
How intellectually malnourished.
Because these are the same people
who will disparage the work in public,
then scurry home in private
to produce a pallid imitation
with no flavor,
no rhythm,
no spiritual voltage,
no discernible talent,
and no evidence of divine authorization.
They call it ordinary,
then try to duplicate it.
They call it too much,
then attempt to wear it.
They call it unnecessary,
then build a little altar
to their own derivative version
and expect applause.
The audacity would be impressive
if it were not so poorly executed.
They pilfer the language,
but not the lineage.
They mimic the cadence,
but not the conviction.
They borrow the silhouette,
but not the sovereignty.
They copy the recipe,
but their hands are bland,
their spirit is undercooked,
and their imagination
is on a very strict budget.
That is the problem
with counterfeit people.
They confuse proximity
with prowess.
They confuse observation
with mastery.
They confuse envy
with discernment.
They think because they watched me bloom,
they understand the root.
No, beloved.
You saw the flower.
You did not survive the weather.
You saw the glow.
You did not pay the invoice.
You saw the crown.
You did not carry the anvil.
You saw the grace.
You did not earn the gravity.
I did.
I earned this.
Through grief.
Through betrayal.
Through discipline.
Through prayer.
Through the kind of private endurance
that makes a woman stop asking permission
and start issuing weather reports.
I have become too astute
to argue with the obtuse.
Too seasoned
to be rattled by the vapid.
Too consecrated
to be appraised
by people whose standards
are as tenuous
as their talent.
Let them be captious.
Let them be petulant.
Let them be duplicitous
in rooms where their names
still require explanation.
I am busy.
I have books to write.
Money to summon.
Rooms to enter.
Ancestors to honor.
A body to anoint.
A life to live
with exquisite, inconvenient confidence.
And yes,
my confidence irritates them.
Good.
Let it exfoliate their insecurities.
I was not placed here
to be palatable
to people who season everything
with resentment.
I was not born
to be a rough draft
in someone else’s provincial imagination.
I am the original manuscript.
The signed edition.
The rare archive.
The woman they study,
criticize,
imitate,
misquote,
resent,
and still cannot become.
Because talent is not transferable.
Skill is not contagious.
Taste is not automatic.
And no amount of spurious confidence
can transform a dull imitation
into a living work of art.
So when they say,
It is not great,
I smile.
Because I already know
what follows.
The replica.
The awkward announcement.
The diluted version.
The little performance
of originality
with my fingerprints
still wet on the door.
And darling,
the room always knows.
The seams confess.
The rhythm collapses.
The language limps.
The flavor never arrives.
Meanwhile, I continue.
Unbothered.
Unbought.
Unreplicated.
With my poise intact,
my humor seasoned,
my vision immaculate,
and my standards too expensive
for the counterfeit market.
I do not need to shout
to be undeniable.
I do not need a consensus
to be correct.
I do not need applause
from hands still sticky
from touching what was never theirs.
The blessing is mine.
The flavor is mine.
The fire is mine.
The authority is mine.
The work is mine.
And what is mine
does not become theirs
because they copied the outline.
Some people are trends.
Some people are noise.
Some people are footnotes
with an inflated posture.
I am none of those.
I am the thesis.
The testimony.
The velvet verdict.
The ocean with earrings on.
The sacred woman
with a sharp tongue,
a soft robe,
and a very accurate mirror.
That is not arrogance.
That is precision.
And I do love
being precise–
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