The word “RACISM” was introduced to me,
while the English language still struggled to fly free from my mouth.
Long before, I was told pretty was white
Skin scrubbed red but never quite right
It wasn't until the word “BLACK” was the first word used to describe me
That the different shades began to spin around me
Hoping somebody would find me,
In a world where people say they can’t see me
Because....you don't see color right?
So I searched and seeked for an answer and found refuge in pen and paper
But you see… the problems before me didn't just disappear,
they fit in the nooks and crannies of my words…. escaping with each pen stroke.
So until my lips and the world shared the same passion as my pen and my paper,
I would keep searching for refuge in places that weren’t mine to seek refuge.
Till’ the power of my voice overpowered that of my fist, Now...they're listening
But you know what?
Tired of the hashtags I wake up to in the morning
Praying my brother (my brothers) don't end up another story
A name so deeply forgotten, it’s taken an squeezed out like a dirty rag
I am tired.
Of having to move To inconvenience myself for your comfortability
why should I have to smile while you clench your bag a little tighter
I am human and I shouldn't have to move because when I stand Makes YOU uncomfortable...
You know what?
I am just tired
Tired of the silence they try to hand feed me
You learn that just because something happens doesn't mean you talk about it,
we don't talk about those amber alerts for those amber skinned girls
because then… we’re making it a race thing
But they'll talk about how your music is too loud
Or how you're too ghetto for this part of town
And how i'm the angry black woman
My genuine emotion portrayed as misplaced rage
Ask me why I'm angry
Cause I'm paying attention
Im seeing my identity being picked and prodded
At an attempt to replace it with something that makes them comfortable
Like calling me an oreo
And I laugh because it's a compliment
Of course it is
When did a snack become the fuel for your bigotry?
They said. “You're pretty...for a black girl”
“No I'm pretty and I'm a black girl”
You can't see color but now, somehow, you can hear it?
I'm not going to fake a smile
Then bite my tongue
Then bleach my skin
And explain white i mean black privilege to bullet holes.
Is this how they'll remember me
Is this how they'll forget me
Is this all that's left of me
a eulogy Hand crafted at the end of me
As I'm laid in a casket
They said it was the gun
But I don't know how to ask it…