Jul 2021
You are not only the color (pale white) of your skin.
You are not just the leftover taste of your accent (distinctly American).
You are not the way your hands shake, the way your nails break skin.
(and yet, here are they are, these things you have been attempting
to escape from all your life.)
here they are, the things others take as inescapable truths.
(not the way you bow when you should wave.)
(not the way you stutter over words that aren't quite your own.)
(not the way the words depression and anxiety crawl around your mindscape and your actions, refusing to be spoken of.)
During the month of pride, you wear a t-shirt with a rainbow upon it, and dare the world to comment.
Your fists are clenched, with nervousness and fear, with a shame you can not escape, with your own refusal to stay hidden in the guilty safety of cowardice.
Hands clenched by your sides, and you get one comment only:
"Nice shirt."
And you flinch back before you register the genuinity of it.
Honesty, not sarcasm, not a sneer in sight --
because this is what fear does to you.
"Thank you," you manage,
the stranger gone and off in the next moment --
and the other eyes on the street catch you, make you swallow.
In June, you square your shoulders and glare back.
In June, you stand tall and fast and dare yourself some bravery.
In July, you tug a sweater over your favorite shirt.
In July, you go out in the heatwave, and don't dare take it off.
In July, you are back to being quietly paralyzed by fear.
And it's been years, since anyone has insulted you to your face.
It's been years, but sometimes...
the questions weigh on you, and the judgement.
the things people say unaware of your presence, haunt you.
the words they don't say stack up against you.
You should not be afraid,
but you have always been.
You should not hide away,
but relief floods through you
even as you swallow away the shame.
(And here is a thing no one will ever care to see you try to escape.)
And maybe this is not the way it
should be, but this is the way it is.
Safety is only ever an illusion,
trapped in a world where you will never quite belong,
where no one will ever quite let you forget it.
not the way it should be -- but the way it is.
(so is it any wonder, that your heart skips beats?
is it any wonder, that you feel trapped in this world?
is it any wonder, that you (have not) do not (will never) belong?)
You are not just the leftover taste of your accent (distinctly American).
You are not the way your hands shake, the way your nails break skin.
(and yet, here are they are, these things you have been attempting
to escape from all your life.)
here they are, the things others take as inescapable truths.
(not the way you bow when you should wave.)
(not the way you stutter over words that aren't quite your own.)
(not the way the words depression and anxiety crawl around your mindscape and your actions, refusing to be spoken of.)
During the month of pride, you wear a t-shirt with a rainbow upon it, and dare the world to comment.
Your fists are clenched, with nervousness and fear, with a shame you can not escape, with your own refusal to stay hidden in the guilty safety of cowardice.
Hands clenched by your sides, and you get one comment only:
"Nice shirt."
And you flinch back before you register the genuinity of it.
Honesty, not sarcasm, not a sneer in sight --
because this is what fear does to you.
"Thank you," you manage,
the stranger gone and off in the next moment --
and the other eyes on the street catch you, make you swallow.
In June, you square your shoulders and glare back.
In June, you stand tall and fast and dare yourself some bravery.
In July, you tug a sweater over your favorite shirt.
In July, you go out in the heatwave, and don't dare take it off.
In July, you are back to being quietly paralyzed by fear.
And it's been years, since anyone has insulted you to your face.
It's been years, but sometimes...
the questions weigh on you, and the judgement.
the things people say unaware of your presence, haunt you.
the words they don't say stack up against you.
You should not be afraid,
but you have always been.
You should not hide away,
but relief floods through you
even as you swallow away the shame.
(And here is a thing no one will ever care to see you try to escape.)
And maybe this is not the way it
should be, but this is the way it is.
Safety is only ever an illusion,
trapped in a world where you will never quite belong,
where no one will ever quite let you forget it.
not the way it should be -- but the way it is.
(so is it any wonder, that your heart skips beats?
is it any wonder, that you feel trapped in this world?
is it any wonder, that you (have not) do not (will never) belong?)
