She didn't tiptoe. She stomped.

Locked the door and hummed sweet sticky syrup over the song she took from us;

the song borne from our pain. 

Our tunes amuse her.

She ransacks our closets, pilfering our precious beads and braids;

We watch her run her fingers through her long blonde birthright. 

Our scalps tingle with the flame of assimilation. 

Pressed, permed, punished for persisting.

She thinks she wants to trade her locks for our crown of thorns. 

Singing sweetly, she paints her face in our vanity, masking porcelain with shade after shade of almond, honey, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, tar.

Just right. 

We implore: open the door. 

She laughs at our jokes. 

In the kitchen she piles our delicacies high on our largest plate.

Our sustenance is now hers to sniff, bite, cough, judge, discard.

She scrapes the fruits of our labor into the Insinkerator and switches it on.

Whirling metal blades are the final critic.

The legacy of our ancestors is pulpified.

Just right. 

She hikes up her skirts and slips into our softest bed, cradled by her flaxen halo of privilege. 

Our forest is burning. 

She sighs into peaceful sleep, a trail of smouldering footsteps in her wake. 

Just right. 



This poem is amazing. I want to read it for my Intercultural Class because I think it showcases the perspective of White Privelege, Colonization, and Racism in a way that's thought provoking. I want to provide you with all the credit. Are you able to tell me your name and a brief Bio?


Thank you so much for appreciating my poem, that's super cool. For credit, my name is Thyra Chaney and I'm no poet, just a student of life

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741