You think I don’t see
The way you lean away from me,
as if my Blackness is catching.
I watch your eyes, watch your things;
Taking inventory in preparation
I see your smile get the tiniest bit tighter,
when I park myself next yourself
and ourselves are no selves
Yeah, I notice the way you begin to shift,
like an unscratchable itch is inching inching inching
across your skin.
Or is it just my skin?
Those whispered words between you
and your little blond-haired friend
are not as soft as you’d like to believe
But I think you already know that
and I know that you know that I know,
And I am left to bear the brunt of your discomfort
Saying my bad, my fault, it’s on me
But it isn’t, is it?
You think I can somehow ruuuuuub my
all. over. you.
Besmirching your not-so-fair skin
(you’ve got a little something right there).
Am I condescending on your privilege,
invading on your right, not my right, to be you and not me?
Well guess what?
You can’t catch my blackness.
It’s not a disease,
coughing and breathing and bleeding you in.
It won’t wipe off on you if I touch you (yeah I said it)
Breathe easy home girl.
Besides, I wouldn’t give it to you if you begged me
hands raised, knees bent, eyes welling, swelling, filling and spilling.
I didn’t catch my blackness. You won’t either
But maybe if you could,
understand how your actions make me feel
And wouldn’t that be progress?