When I was younger I stood in the mirror and wondered who the girl was staring back at me

I questioned the color of my skin and if it was the reason I didn’t fit in

I told myself that I’d tell those who deemed me undeserving that I hate my skin too

And maybe then I’d be cool enough to be picked first

Or at least getting picked last wouldn’t hurt as much

And maybe if I drew straight lines on my skin I’d appear to be straight too

Because being black and bisexual is a death sentence I can’t complete

Do they make keys strong enough to keep the part of me that wanders locked away

What do I say when they question my silence

What shade of eyeshadow would hide my crying

There isn’t a dictionary big enough to help me find a phrase to accessorize my uncertainties

And quite frankly I’m done trying

If I could talk to that girl back then

I’d tell her to love the color of her skin

To hell with the judgements of those who’ve never stood trial

And never to hide from who she is within