It's like a shadow.

Falling beside me, but not on me.

Or in me.

"You're not mixed?"

They ask with a questioning smile on their face.

I've heard this question too many times from black, white, red, and yellow people. " You don't act black."

My own people accuse.

"Why do you talk white?"

My own people ask like colors can talk.

It hurts me to think even they won't accept me.

Even they see my shadow walking beside me, but not ever colliding.

I thought my hair would be an emblem of what I am, but I guess not.

"You've got good hair."

They smile, like they haven't slashed my already mangled heart.

I curse my distant shadow, and try to turn and look at it, but it's always behind me.  White people see my inaccessible shadow as a pathos, but for the wrong reasons. They insult my shadow, pushing it farther away.

They say deplorable, enraging things.

"You're smart for a black girls."

They try to compliment me.

"Your light skinned, so you're not really black."

My heart can't take anymore of the lashes, but I can't convince my shadow to move.

To let me take it in my arms, and smother it.

To let me and it become one.

Why shadow?

Why won't you collide with me?


This poem is about: 
My community
My country


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