Blacked Out Part 10: Seeds

Maybe that wasn’t racial

I whisper to myself, dissecting each stare, the quasi-caressing of my Senegalese twists, amazement when my phone voice and in-person melanin clash.
Dog whistles nip at my ankles, bark incessantly until I trip over my own insecurities.

Clawing out each memory, chiseling and prodding between membrane.

Once porous pelts off and melts. I’ve birthed an unwanted

pool of racist concrete.

Poems and anecdotes now carved into stone,

From outside I can safely poke back.

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