Fascinating.

Fascinating. In my dictionary, it’s described as intrusive interest, dehumanizing curiosity, and something I don’t want to be. Why do you find me so…fascinating?

Why is my hair so interesting to you? Compliments leak from your tongue like too much wine. Stop it, you’re drunk.

It’s as if you feel the need to validate my individuality. I take advantage of the variations of styles that my hair happens to fall into, and you take care to remind me that it looks nice. Do you wish you could try it? Do you want to empower me to embrace my natural curls?

Well, then maybe you should worry more about the ways my hair has been discriminated against and less about how it feels between your fingers.

I can’t believe this chick just touched my hair. Like I’m some pet wandering her pen at the zoo. I’m trying desperately to think of an instance where I’ve had any interest at all in running my brown fingers over someone else’s strands and all I picture is…a dog. Thanks.

Do you think you could just, Stop Fetishizing Me? There’s a difference between recognizing my individuality and making it your object of study.

We’re both so totally different that you can’t even fathom all of the ways. I will never not be one of your “Black friends.” You should go ahead and introduce me as such. Such thoughtless omissions only make me feel more invisible.

My Blackness gives context to my experiences. Going to a white school system is different. Finding a hairdresser is different. Walking down the street is different. Succeeding at anything is different.

But you’re so blinded by my hair, my skin color, and the size of my brother’s manhood that you’re in no danger of enlightening yourself.

I am a human, not a physiology. I have a culture, not a race. And you should use my Blackness as a reminder to check your privilege and ignorance at the door. And be fascinated by the fact I didn’t break your wrist.

One Day

One day

A man is gonna look at me doing me and smile cuz he loves my energy

He’s gonna feed off my inner peace and beg to feed it back to me

One day

This man is gonna fall at my feet

Not in reverence, more prayerfully

Thanking God that we’re meant to be

One day

I’ll be walking down the beach

Feet in the sand but hands holding hands and thinking goddamn

I’m so lucky to have this man

One day

He’ll leave temporarily and I’ll smile as tears fall down my face because I know he’s coming home to me

Eventually

One day

I’ll hug and hold on to him so long that hours pass

I’m gonna make that shit last

so long as he’s my

One day

The man I will marry

The man I will carry

And one day bury

One day

I’ll say I love you

And he’ll ask “is it true?”

Then we’ll make a baby boy

Maybe a girl, too

One day

Dreams will be attainable to me

Impossible will become reality

And you will forever be

My one day