I Want to Tell You a Story

I Want to Tell You a Story

by Milli Femme

I want to tell you a story.

Not one dressed in lace and lullabies,

But one that smells like antiseptic and fear,

Where the beeping of machines

Tried to drown out my intuition.

I want to tell you a story.

Of a woman who knew her body 

Knew the language of her blood,

Knew when pressure was rising like rage beneath ribs,

And still was told,

“Everything looks fine.”

Fine.

They love that word when you’re Black and breathing.

When your voice shakes but you still speak soft.

When your pain is visible 

But they choose not to see it.

My first warning came quiet.

A headache that hummed like a hymn.

Swollen feet preaching sermons no one heard.

I said, “Something's wrong.”

They said, “You just need rest.”

But rest don’t cure rising pressure.

And when the storm hit 

It hit postpartum.

My baby in one arm,

My body in battle mode.

Preeclampsia.

That word rolled in like thunder after the rain.

I lived 

But I never forgot how close I came

To being another statistic they quote

In meetings and memos 

3 to 5 times more likely to die.

But I didn’t.

Because prayer held me tighter than policy ever could.

I want to tell you a story

Of déjà vu disguised as neglect.

Years later 

Another baby,

Another warning sign.

Same blood pressure,

Same pounding head,

Same sinking feeling in my gut.

And again, they said,

“You’re overreacting.”

But I had seen this movie before.

I knew the script.

And this time, I refused the silence.

I called louder.

Pushed harder.

Demanded they take my pulse, my pressure, my pain

Seriously.

Because how do you ignore a woman

Who’s already survived your disregard once?

How do you look at my chart, my melanin,

And still mistake strength for invincibility?

Let me tell you 

Being strong doesn’t mean being unbreakable.

It just means we rebuild in real time.

We labor in body and in truth.

We bleed and still bless.

So I want to tell you this story.

Not because I love the sound of my suffering,

But because silence doesn’t save lives.

And I’ve got five pairs of eyes, plus one, watching me now,

Learning what it means to speak up

Even when they try to hush you.

I am the woman who lived twice.

Who birthed through thunder and statistics,

Who looked death in the eye

And told her, “Not today... I'm busy.”

My womb has been a witness.

My blood... a battleground.

But my tongue?

My tongue is liberation.

And every time I say,

“I want to tell you a story,”

I’m really saying,

"Listen."

Because maybe if they listened then,

More of us would still be here now.