Who is the world made for?

When you’re white, the world is made for you.

Is it just me? I glance and try not to stare, wondering
what it’s like not be an Other. I look away bitterly   whist fully
yet I know I want to be myself.

Do I?
Want that?
To be Me?

For when you’re white, the world is made for you.

I craft my own world off to the
side and
invite other   Others in,

and sometimes you are let in- white you,
because when I
get close
I see that you are

Me.

Our worlds merge
until I am on the
packed
train and I
shrink
to
the
side
against
the
cold
whistling
metal doors and
remember what
You said:
This
space
is
not
yours.

I walk home with shoulders hunched,
high by habit,
and only let go when I am…

I am
I am

what I am
and

I take
I can take,
it’s mine to take,

even if
the World is not made for Me.

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