Since I was seven,
I had questions swarming through my head like bees.
Sometimes, I'd let a bee fly out if I was feeling strong that day,
But many kept quiet in the corners of my mind,
Stinging my neurons,
Creating a sticky mess of mysteries.
And for almost ten years, I thought that maybe if I could let them all go,
Then my head could heal,
And then I'd be at peace —
Because when they're loud—
They're buzzing,
And emphatic—
So, mind me while I ask these questions, so I can sleep tonight:
- So, is water really wet?
- Why is that when people see someone fail, they instantly fill with relief?
- Wasn’t the world supposed to end six years ago?
- Why do I grow so much?
- Is being called a 'walking tree' okay?
- Are any of us really okay?
- So, when I was younger, I was told to grow up, but now that I have, why am I told that act too grown?
- Is it okay to miss someone who's not worth the space of missing? Or the longing?
- Can bones get wet? Or are they already wet?
- So, when they say that our people are free, why are we not?
- When they say that segregation is over, why am I still put at the end of the line?
- Has anyone thought about their bones not being bones, but ash instead? (I did)
- Is it just me, or does it seem like my people have to work three times as hard just to reach equality with the superior?
- So why is it so easy to not talk, and keep my lasting breath in my chest, rather than to waste it on ears who won't give my words a listen?
- Why are we still at the bottom after we built this world with our callused hands?
- So, if they tell us that we were built to fall apart, is that why my seams are splitting?
- I thought you said the old people die first?
- How is it so easy for parents to leave and not come back?
- In a world full of opposition, why is my mind on their side and not mine?
- I thought you said she would come back this time?