all these white women get to bore me. i have nothing to say
and when i do i am a live museum exhibit that they like to
grab at. how do i tell them to not look or touch. how do i
tell them that i am in many senses trying to punch out of this skin that they are turning into their feel good sunday afternoon. how do i tell them that i can not love them because they had once taught me that to love myself was a waste of everybody’s
time. and to love them was, too. and it wasn’t them. but it still was. and it isn’t about the women. and it isn’t about the white.
when you talk about white people sometimes the response
can get a little bit tricky. even now i am afraid to offend you.
and i don’t know who you are. and you don’t know who i am. but do not take that as a critique on your whiteness. i fear only to offend another man or another woman. but i imagine that can often be difficult for the white man or woman to truly understand.