YOU have taken everything from me, touched every inch of my brown skin, and opened me up just to place yourself inside of me for all of 10 minutes.
Just so you’d know what it felt like to fuck a black girl.
I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m just as scared as the rest of them.
Virginity is all white to you, maybe,
I am just a music video whore
And you’re Kanye West’s biggest fan
You worship my ass and thighs and I want to keep up the illusion, so I don’t tell you that you’re hurting me.
Afterwards, I lay down next you on white sheets, wanting you to touch me again.
I ask you about your tattoos, the first one on your forearm, which has some kind of religious symbolism. You ask if I want the long version or the short version of the story that you tell everyone. I choose the former because I want to work out whether you are as complex as you pretend to be and I want to feel special to you.
It’s irrelevant whether you lie or not, as long as I can convince myself that it is the truth. I’m so in love with the idea of you granting me access to you that I forget the whole story.
We’re both high and you’re making me laugh even though I can no longer breathe, trying not to crash, trying to stay up here forever when I know and everyone else certainly knows the inevitable- that we’re a train wreck waiting to happen.
The second tattoo, before I forget, is on your ribcage, my favourite part of your suddenly familiar body.
You say something about a famous tattoo artist that I’ve never heard of doing it for you for free, and you put on a roadman accent to re-enact the transaction.
I know you intend to be funny so I laugh, even though it feels like you are making a mockery of a people I don’t know but am bound to by blood.
But blood can be washed away and the ink on your skin remains, and it is that skin that you’re in that means I am always wrong and you are always right.
I see an outline of a woman in African headdress, the lines of her upper body bending as you arch your back
You don’t seem to know, or care, what she is to you, so you shrug and agree with me, and that’s the moment I know we will only ever be freebies to you.
What’s going to happen when I take off my wig and remove the green from my eyes?
What’s going to happen when you realise that I am not the exotic fruit you ordered?
It doesn’t matter now because I am just a face in the crowd, watching you watching girls you can take home to your mother, or who will fuck you unapologetically, doing everything you did to me in reverse.
we’re a train wreck waiting to happen
The pathetic thing is I thought I had control of this one, I thought I could be with you without caring what you did to me.
The uber you ordered is taking too long so I climb on top of you, feeling as if I had achieved something that every other girl had not. And then you touch my hair, feeling the hard, plastic outline of my wig and I shock myself by being the one to recoil in repulsion.
The illusion shatters and glass falls around me like rain on a pavement, so ordinary that any normal person would hardly notice.
My skin burns as if I have been branded, and I have, and now until someone offers you a higher asking price, I am forever yours.