The white child hesitates before sitting next to me on the train

His mother nervously ushering him into the seat,

sweeping his newfound bigotry under it

White child, are you afraid of me?

Well child, the fear is mutual

but you fear me for what I am and I fear you for what you can become

I peer into your eyes knowing that those same eyes could stare into mine 20 years from now,

as those small, innocent hands grow large and red as you lynch me

White child, will you become one of the ones that yells “go back to Africa” as if y’all weren’t responsible for bringing me here

As if I wasn’t so severed from the breast of my geneology

that I would have nowhere to go upon my arrival

As if this wasn’t the birthplace of my bodies and the bodies before mine

When you tell me to go back to where I came from,

I know the place you conjure and it isn’t Africa

but I’ve been there too

I was born into it and catch glimpses of it in your light skin and eyes

I see your potential

White child, are you afraid of me?

With skin black and teeth gleaming,

I pray that you outgrow your fear of the dark

It is best for us both

If you want me to go to Hell,

watch me crawl into your skin

After all, it can’t be that hard,

I’ve had to act white my entire life

Your tight skin and thin lips can not hold all of my black

Watch yourself rip at the seams as my black breaks through and you become me

I mean isn’t this what you wanted when you appropriated where I am from?

To answer your questions:

Yes, it is always this painful

No, it never goes away

White child, are you afraid?

Jahleelah, 16, is a senior at Creekside High School. Jahleelah is a queer teen activist and artist who appreciates poetry, contemporary art and electric guitars.

Related Story: Jahleelah shared this poem at the Decatur Book Festival Teen Poetry Slam/Open Mic.