Are you Black?

 “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!!