We are not the same.
We may bleed and breathe,
feel hunger, grief, desire
but perception is the threshold–
where flesh ends
and prejudice begins.
I move through the world
like my body is not a question–
eyes down,
breath unguarded,
expecting doors to open
and surprised only when they don’t.
I move through the world
without rehearsing my innocence–
assuming my mistakes
will be called human,
not evidence.
I have never had to measure
how fast my heart can beat
before it looks suspicious.
I do not have to hide–
unless I choose to.
What I may be judged for
can be tucked beneath my skin,
secrets folded carefully
away from sight.
I decide
when to expose them,
where,
and to whom–
how much of myself
the room is allowed to hold.
That choice is agency.
And agency is my privilege.
I am not bound to a preconception
written across the surface of my body,
not sentenced by the color of my skin
before my voice has weight.
And still–
I flinch at pain
and expect to be held.
I carry wounds
that ask to be centered–
even when they should not be.
I am beginning to understand:
I carry one less layer.
It is not my job
to ask the stripped
to show up for me.
To perform strength
on my behalf.
It is only my job
to show up for them.
To use that extra layer
not as armor,
but as shelter.
To stand without expectation.
To listen without urgency.
To give without demand.
Because recognizing the layers–
and showing up anyway
when silence would be easier–
is the least
I can do.
