Note To Self

13, and green, I try to blend in.


Like I can adequately fall into a single file of White faces.


It feels just like the way my crayons splinter & crack as I try to color inside the lines.


15, and determined, I have a plan.


I listen and learn, trade in my Air-Force Ones for a pair of Birkenstocks.


Learn that my biggest strength is being palatable.


Also Learn that I’m that I’m pretty cool for a Black boy.


18, and unaware-ably angry, I am an entertainer.


Smile, Joke, laugh, tease. I am a Party.


I’m pretty good at this huh?


Probably can’t tell that I mutilated myself into tiny microscopic pieces, then built myself back up into an ivory picket fence so high, you can’t even see the sunrise.


21, and unglued, I melt.


I’m a puddle, not of anything crystal clear, but of mud.


I am dirty.


Slithering through my own slime, I find a few fragments that I barely recognize and try to piece them together like a 3D Puzzle, using my own muck as adhesive.


No more fence, you get to see the sun rise, I get to dry.


25, and a whole new me.


People still say that right, “A whole new me”?


Though it’s technically not a new me, it’s really the old me before the “new me” knew me.


And if they knew the old me, would they still want to know me?


28, well almost.


I Still can’t color inside the lines.


No more fences.


My Birkenstocks, still are caked with dried mud.


Guess I’ll know more, 3 Years from now.

What do you think?


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