Biracial in the Seventh Grade

Ripped from my cocoon,

I stand in a lunch room,

looking for a seat.

I just want to eat.


I am not expecting a mirror

but I cannot see myself here.

It looks like each table has a code

and I am thinking I should not have showed.


I see a table where only black girls sit,

each seat getting filled bit by bit.

Nearby I see what looks like the white girls' table.

Without me the theme remains stable.


No one wants me to sit with them,

there is nowhere I could blend in.

I go home and ask my mom, "why?"

I want to cry. 


I learn that I am not whole

and I feel out of control.

I am in pieces,

how have I never seen this? 


Identity is everything,

and not having one stings.

It is not always black and white,

but with me, those two are right. 




This poem is about: 


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