a love letter to the ones still holding on

 

 

milkblack

the name I gave what couldn’t be named

 

There is no translation
for the moment right before you break—
but after you’ve already been broken
too many times to count.

No language for the quiet
between survival and surrender.
For when your breath is still here
but your spirit hasn’t caught up.

milkblack is that space.

It’s the shadow where I waited
when the light felt like too much.
It’s the name I whispered
when my body still pulsed with memory
but my mouth forgot how to pray.

It’s not a color.
It’s not a mood.
It’s the pulse behind the ache,
the softness that stayed intact
long after I stopped calling it strength.

milk, because it fed me.
Black, because it held me.
Both, because neither asked me to be anything
but what I was:
hurting and holy
at the same time.

I wrote this for the ones
who feel too much for language,
too complex for comfort,
too soft for a world that demands steel.

For the women who survive
without celebration.
Who carry light and shadow in the same rib.
Who show up to the day
not because it’s easy—
but because they are still here.
Still her.

If you don’t know how to explain
what you’ve been carrying—
you don’t have to.
Just say it with me now:

milkblack.

And let that be enough.

T.M.

Written by Tasha Monroe, founder of Simply Edyn & Co. Learn more → Click Here

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