They tell you to breathe. It’s supposed to help.
You can NEVER afford to be seen as weak. The words pound through my head so I hide what I feel without fixing it.
Months a year on hostile territory-I’m barely human.
It’s in their eyes.
Events I’ve helped plan. They’re supposed to show you how “palatable” I am, but I think they just make you know me less and see me more.
The number of friends I can call in a breakdown. I rarely do. The list is more for sentiment than practicality.
B L A C K
It never comes off and they’ll never let me forget it. My presence here is a political statement. Even when all I want is to just be.
Pairs of eyes. If you steal something, you’re a thief; if you think black people are inferior, you’re racist. No buts about it.
Oh, excuse me while I get you a tissue for it must be so difficult to face society’s accurate perceptions of you.
You’re not sorry for the crime, just sorry you had to waste a night of your life avoiding the consequences.
Times a day I remind myself why I want to stay alive.
Times a day my voice tells me to die
therapy session. That’s all I’ve been able to squeeze into the fast-paced numbers that make me up.
I struggle with extreme anxiety. For the last couple of months, I’ve been stuck on the sidelines. Too busy avoiding my emotions and fear to actually have a reason for that smile you see.