I was a little black girl
growing up in the land of white picket fences,
lacking my own,
but fenced in by those who had them.
If I was ever to make it over those barriers,
I’d have to let go of a few things.
So I disowned my ***** hair,
and refused to listen to Chris Brown
or eat watermelon or fried chicken in public.
But I was still weighed down by my consciousness of being the “other”,
the outsider trapped on the inside,
the oil slick in the ocean
still not buoyant enough to stay afloat.
And in all of my futile attempts to surpass them,
I just ended up impaling myself
on those white picket fences.