Biracial in the Seventh Grade

Ripped from my cocoon,

I stand in a lunch room,

looking for a seat.

I just want to eat.

 

I am not expecting a mirror

but I cannot see myself here.

It looks like each table has a code

and I am thinking I should not have showed.

 

I see a table where only black girls sit,

each seat getting filled bit by bit.

Nearby I see what looks like the white girls' table.

Without me the theme remains stable.

 

No one wants me to sit with them,

there is nowhere I could blend in.

I go home and ask my mom, "why?"

I want to cry. 

 

I learn that I am not whole

and I feel out of control.

I am in pieces,

how have I never seen this? 

 

Identity is everything,

and not having one stings.

It is not always black and white,

but with me, those two are right. 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741