Favorite Colors

Why do you hate me? There is no threat posed with my slender figure burying my head in textbooks, learning a history that’s forgotten about me. What I say is crafted in multicolored phrases, imagined by my thin heart strings but it doesn’t matter when all you hear is drowned by unbearable darkness and you never grew out of your night light.  No concern for thick calves walking to approval with tested hair and crisp speech. You couldn’t handle raw syllables dancing on my tongue, chewing sweet potato slang.  My worth is stifled n the system, falling in between file folders of minority quotas and equality law requirements. If I’m no more than the clatter of your teeth when you see me, then

Why do you hate me? I try to ignore the disregard of my opinion, setting it aside to fluff your sheep pillow, stuffing my ideas in overflowing pockets. I hold my tongue when you question my hairstyle for the week, using prickly fingers to violate its kinks. I pretend I don’t hear you praising my “juicy” lips and begging to get that black side effect. Sour giggles stuck in my ribcage, clenching my lungs because you qualified for every white kid who says Nigga because he has the required 1 black friend. I close my eyes, fighting the pulse of my fingers to raise hands above my head, pleading don’t shoot because it’s not relevant in my government class anymore.

Why do you hate me when so many abandon their community to find peace, just to be at peace?

I can’t anymore. I can’t shuffle into designated stereotypical jokes attached to my too wide hips, clasping my hand over too big lips. I can’t sit in class pretending that slavery was the highlight of black culture. I can’t watch black artist constantly defend their merit that they’ve built for decades only to be snubbed large pale hands. I can’t be as insignificant as my history in OUR textbooks.

I can not ask why you hate me because the answer doesn’t matter.