You know the stereotype.
But show me one person who don’t like fried chicken,
And I’ll show you someone who just ain’t made it right.

First, you clean it before you season it.
Pat it dry, on both sides, and you see the red?
That ain’t dye—that’s the blood that keeps a lie alive.
The blood that stains the recipe,
While they still beg for the taste.

So just because something is dead,
Don’t mean it’s the end of everything.
Because even dead chickens still bleed.

That’s just like history—
Leaking proof long after the body is cold,
Reminding you that even what’s buried
Still has a story to be told.

We prop up the past like a crutch,
Even when the limbs don’t move.
Revive what’s comfortable,
Because resurrection’s easier than truth.

Do you know what trauma is?
Taught Repeatedly. Accepted Until Minds Adjust.
We inherit trauma like tradition,
Until over time, it becomes normal.

They say, “We’ve come so far.”
But ain’t it funny how far still look like circles?
How the past still lingers in the grease of our grandmothers’ cast irons,
How we still season pain to make it digestible?

Taught Repeatedly. Accepted Until Minds Adjust.
We don’t pass down trauma, we serve it.
On fine china or paper plates—
Same meal, different presentation.

We remix the pain, make it a hit,
Turn the wounds into Billboard charts,
Make the struggle a style,
Call it grit, call it culture, call it “it is what it is.”

Taught Repeatedly. Accepted Until Minds Adjust.

But what if we stopped?
What if we stopped seasoning survival,
Stopped frying up pain just to make it digestible?
What if we let history rot—
Left it out in the open, untouched, unburied, undeniable—
And watched who still comes back with a plate?