Between

There is a chasm
between your ivory
and my dusky yellow
and I am terrified
that my hands cannot reach you
that my love cannot extend
this far.

For much of my life
I’ve sat in silence
as rage pummeled my chest
and my fingertips carved
crescent moons into my palms.

Can I sit like this in the face of
your mother’s well-intentioned micro-agressions?
your father’s blustering denial?
your sister’s stereotyping of a culture she has not tried to understand?
Should I sit like this?
How much can I swallow
before bile burns my windpipe
and I lose whatever voice I once possessed?

Did you know that I was crying
underneath the sunlit patio
as you created your imaginary worlds
and smiled at me with eyes aglow
every time I turned to look at you?

I felt the weight of my skin then.
The weight of this nation’s history,
pressing down on my lungs.
How can I love you?
You, with your curls steeped in gold,
content in the simplicity of the day.

You, with your nice family
and your nice job
and your nice life
and your nice plans
with me in mind.

You, who have always unknowingly benefited
from the degradation
of every person
who does not share
your ivory.

How can I love you?

I ask myself
as my lungs fight to breath
against the weight of my friends’
unspoken accusations
against the weight of
my own anger
my own fear
my own pain
my own knowledge of
the wrongs committed
against people like me
by people like you.

How can I love you?





But the thing is.

I do.



I love you.

And yet.

My feeble hands cannot bridge this chasm between
your skin and mine.

But maybe His can.

Or maybe ours can,
if we allow Him to guide our fingers until they meet.
if we allow Him to help us work out
what we can carry together.
if we allow Him to teach us
when and how and what
to speak.


Because this is not just a passing news event for me.
It’s not just a moment of mourning.
In this fallen world,
my skin colors my every waking breath
and I need you to see this.
I need you to see me.
To see my forced smile at the dinner table
To feel my hands crumpling into fists
To hear all that I am not saying.

And in turn, to decide when and how and what to speak.

Your good intention is not enough
if your default response is silence.

I have sat in silence
most of my life
as rage pummeled my chest

and I refuse to do so for the rest of my life
my lungs cannot bear the weight
of all I leave unsaid.

Please.

Would you bridge this chasm with me?