Across the street from my house were
the nicer, two-story homes of white neighbors.
When the sun would set, it would
shine off their windows. Even
the sun found them more important.
There weren't many black folks in
the neighborhood, enough to where
it could be classified as diverse.
Not enough to where it'd be
classified as dangerous.
We were children; neighbors; friends.
In our neighborhood,
color didn't matter. We were family—unless
you were a black child sitting on the porch
watching as a random driver shouts nigger!
as they speed by.
I wanted to be
an orange, to be able to peel off this
skin that everyone hated for no reason.
YOU ARE READING
Where the Flowers Bloom Unwatered
PoetryA collection of poems written throughout several stages in life, journeying through the human condition through the lens of black girlhood and black womanhood.
