I was not raised by soft women, Tongues like knives and voices wide like the sea. I was not raised by soft women, For every wound, salt was the remedy. No lightness in their tread There is grit in her grace, man. Flour pounded by ancient hands Presence that undeniably commands, Honour. part four // generations created by LOKRE & @katwebber_ shot by @katwebber_ edited by @_keisharose