The Black Experience

I feel like black is in so I celebrate my skin,

I let my Afro out and white people get an in.

Can I touch your hair? It’s not a taboo.

Oh my gosh it’s so soft! Yes, why thank you.

You think my skin is so pretty, but you don’t really wanna live in it.

Your skin is so pretty, says every man who wants their penis in it.

It’s biological, all of us we’re all animals.

We tear each other down but swear that we’re not cannibals.

Oh you’re a vegan? Ok I digress.

Let me know if anything I’m telling you is hard to digest.

You want my culture, but not the skin tone.

You wanna be my friend, save me under “Black Girl 😘💕💁🏾” in your iPhone.

You used emojis so oh, you’re not a racist.

I’m the ONLY black in your phone, but that’s okay, sis.

I see you clench your jaw on the topic of race.

Does it make you uncomfortable like having a new phone but without the case?

Welcome to my every minute, every second of every day.

It’s just the price you pay when you look a certain way.

I’m not bitter even though you’ll probably misinterpret this.

I only wish to educate you, this is not a diss.

I bet you think being black is my greatest obstacle.

If I told you you were wrong, I bet you’d say that it’s impossible.

The truth is my mental health is on shaky ground.

Depression hits and it feels like I’m starting to drown.

That’s why I hate the common misconception that black people can’t swim.

We do it everyday around white people with names like Pam and Jim.

You’ll never see it though.

You’d need bifocals.

Oh you’re woke?

Excuse me you’ll need trifocals.

I don’t wanna be cute, I don’t care if you smile.

I’m expressing myself and I’m being mild.

I’m so bottled up, please take my cap off.

I’m tryna decompress, I’m not tryna show off.

I’m not tryna go off.

I’m not tryna blow you off.

Who am I to judge?

I’m a black girl who loves the work of Chekhov.

Maybe I don’t fit in.

Maybe I’ll never win.

Maybe I’m chasing after something that has no end.

Are we as a society broken?

Like your phone screen?

Are we rough to the touch?

Torn at the seams?

Can I fix it? Am I the solution?

Am I the problem? Could I be the pollution?

Maybe I add the fuel to the flame,

but I’d rather admit I’m hurting than burn and smile through the pain.

Dear God,

please send rain.