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.