“Are you black?”
You ask as
the melatonin in my skin seeps in deeper
within my skin,
like a child who hides in a corner or under their bed
when they know,
they’re in trouble, but the trouble that lurks
needs shut down.
The trouble depends on the confidence within your response.
“Are you black?”
the wipe to my already fragile back of uncertainty
following people tugging my hair,
hoping to see it fall off,
leaving it on the floor of in your grasp,
to only be shocked to see my held backhand,
stopped before letting it fly through the air to later intersect with your face.
“Are you black?”
following after you telling me
“girl you eat like a fucking white girl” or
‘Girl you don’t speak black”, but
still looking at me like I’m night to your day
when I want to sit down by your side.
“Are you black”
The question that I tried not to ask myself in the mirror growing up,
or looking at everyone as if they’re dumb for having to ask me that question, but
at the same time leaving me to question “if I” because maybe
I’m not doing my job,
not showing who I am,
or what I am as a person.
“Are you black?”
YES, I AM!!
