contrast

She says she likes the color of my skin,
says it's a beautiful color.

It's hard for me sometimes, to understand that
the stories that Mr. Whittler tells me, on late nights
and long days at an immaculate marble table
I watched built from the ground
by a man who does not look like me,
it's hard to know that his reality is different

I breaks me down sometimes to think that
the rope that held him close to
dark shades, and gets him pulled over for the hell of it.
cuffs on before questions. and makes him feel
like hardened is what he should be, to think that rope is now string
and I can't be bothered by obstacles it presents for me
it makes me feel far from him

Farther than integrating a school makes me feel from my own color.

No matter how much I talk or joke. no matter the audience...

And I admit I love the contrast, the possibility of the contrast birthing
a new shade all together.
So when she says she loves the color of my skin, I swallow the possible implications
the wondering in the back of my mind I shove down.

I remember, I accept, I realize.