Outsider

by living-glass

My life was inadvertent — I could feel it.

It always began with whispers, intense gazes and vague hand movements; their language was alien to me, but we donned the same cloth. 

I remained pensive as I turned away from their surreptitious, hidden laughters; my head on the edges of the table, my nerves galvanising  my system, my voice tied to the looser ends of my tattered shoes. 

I was the girl, I was that person.

This impelled me to run, and in my mind I was running across the Seven Seas; the lushest and most verdant African plains, or high up to the incessant whiffs of clouds. 

And in a microscopic breath of a moment, 

Gravity decided to ram me back, head-first, into the core of this measely Earth. 

And in a microscopic breath of a moment,

I was reminded of the ornery whites and their preposterous postulations; I was reminded of the scent of scarlet red and pastel yellow that trailed behind me as I meandered across corridors; I was reminded of the ghastly mask I am obligated to stitch on the outline of my jaw; I was reminded of the exoteric barbs and insolence that I was slapped across with; I was reminded of the scars that I had to willingly stamp on my forehead and on the nape of my neck as my chest was exposed; I was reminded of the mountains I could not mount and the hills that I could; 

And in that micrscopic breath of a moment,

I was reminded of everything else that I wasn’t. 


The colour of your skin does not define the validation of your existence or the extent of your beauty; self-worth — treasure that.

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