One day, I won’t look over my shoulders.
I won’t scan through my contacts, hoping none of their names flash across a television screen.
Someday,
I won’t worry for my cousins, my uncles, my friends for walking the streets and being seen as potential threats. I won’t need to hear for the hundredth time about my father being kicked out of a store because he looks menacing.
One day, I won’t hold my breath or ground my teeth
every time I see another streak of red and lead, another trail of tears, another need for candlelight.
I won’t hear the hatred drip from my grandmother’s lips; her eyes reflecting a time she has yet to see differ from mine. Won’t see the distrust in my mother’s, my sister’s, my aunts’ eyes whenever someone decides to initiate conversation.
I won’t need to justify stranger eyes lingering over my skin, my eyes, the way I carry myself.
One day, I won’t need to hold back, won’t feel like other in a common land.
I won’t need to hope my younger cousins, family members, won’t see the horrors I see; won’t need to explain to them why the world is, who wears the bright capes, who tears them. Why I distance myself from norm.
Someday, I will be comfortable, safe in numbers, safe with self, alone, content . . .
but will that day come?
