These idiots keep tryna antagonize me
I make excuses for them
Pass off their ignorance as just innocent curiosity
But why they gotta complicate my life
Like me being black, and woman, and alive aint enough for me to constantly try to analyze
See I’m inclined to believe that questions like these don’t find them sitting up at night
They don’t constantly have to use their brain as a filter to sift their thoughts through, instead of their mouth
Too often I get choked up on what I should be saying
Why am I in charge of your feelings
Trying so hard not to step on your toes I’m just floating by
Placing awkward laughs where the awkward silence used to be
But it aint nothing funny
So to the white woman who asked me what my bruises would look like (presumably in comparison to the color of hers)
Dare I say that was too taken aback to give you a proper response then
But the fact that you even thought it okay to ask me something like that (white privilege)
The fact that you only asked and didn’t carry out the act to see it (black privilege)
See unlike you I have to live this
Attempt to navigate the minute space between
life and death
A smile and a tear
Today and tomorrow
One moment and the next
My bruises look like the Atlantic Ocean parted open and swallowed 3 million bodies whole
My bruises look like the ring being the only I.D. Emmett Till’s corpse could carry
My bruises look like a whip knocking amnesia into Kunta thinking his name is Toby
One foot, a bullet to the head, broken ribs, gauged eyes, severed tongues, sound like a horror movie
But that’s Mamie till’s story, that’s Sybrina Fulton’s story, that’s Coretta Scott king’s story
That’s my testimony
This body be the pulpit, this life is the sermon
My bruises look like having to teach you this
Like the souls of black folk, double consciousness
See the fact that you spend your whole life making a living (white privilege)
That fact that I spend my whole life thinking about dying (black privilege)
But you wanna know what my bruises look like
Like me being black, and woman, and alive aint enough for me to have to analyze
My bruises look like this moment
Like me channeling all of this rage into a paper and a pen instead of your face and my fist
My bruises look like Trayvon Martin
Look like I’m regurgitating on 400 years of oppression
My bruises look like Selma, Montgomery, like Baltimore, Ferguson, like Oakland
Like I’m burning man
Can’t you see a body on fire?
And you just stand there with that silly grin on your face dousing fuel on the flames
This here aint easy man
This living is a constant challenge
This blackness is beautiful, and it’s a shame I can only go to the mirror to see it
That fact that you tell stories about your three little children (white privilege)
The fact that I wrestle with naming mine Beloved (black privilege)
My bruises look like I bite my tongue so hard; last night I almost swallowed it
Look like my hands stay at 10 and 2
I make no sudden movements
My bruises look like Sandra bland
A hashtag
Look like the police can turn my eulogy into a suicide note
Look like Texas rewriting history to call slaves “workers” and the slave trade “a migration”
Riddle: What is another word for a black family reunion?
Answer: a graveyard
I’m always the butt of all jokes
The fact that you have something to laugh about (white privilege)
That fact that I have something to smile about (black privilege)
You ask me what my bruises look like
The fact that you don’t see the irony (white privilege)
That fact that I’m standing here as the evidence (black privilege)
Cause if a black body aint the most obvious example
Of scarring and healing
Then I can’t tell you what is