I imagine that we will write love letter to each other in moments of absences.
Letters of insane lengths.
Pages filled with professions of joy.
With secrets that once filled the crisp night air
that one night we lay down to watch the stars.
Pages where metaphors of my eyes…
Who knew that stereotypes would live in us?
Like a poison.. Creeping..
Creeping into children’s heads on the playgrounds.
She was always the last picked for dodgeball,
Last to get her paper back to her in class
The black girl
The yellow girl
The red girl…
We teach our…