He tells me that he doesn’t PayMexicansThe voice in the back of my headTells me toBreatheBut how can I draw breathWhen I’m drowningIn this sea of RacismShe asksPointing at my head fullOf wild curls and thick roots“Is that all yours?”And I want to screamWho else would it belong to?The white man who enslaved me?Or the white woman who is complicitWith white man’s racism?Or the brown sisterWho drank the white supremacy Kool-AidAnd assumes that anyone with natural hairWould straighten itor Buy it.The stranger asksHow long have you been living as a woman?And I am gaggingOn the bitter taste ofthat briny waterThe transphobia of that statementSuffocating meDepriving my brain of oxygenThe urge to strike mountingAnd I try to breathe despite myselfBut I wonderIs it healthy for meTo breathe airTo exist in waterTo live in a mediumThat is so toxic?
Vol. I, No. VIPoetryMorgan Collado