From Little to X
Fuck the people that work here.
Fuck my scrawny, ugly, sexually repressed boss.
Fuck the trust-fund babies that shop there—askin’ me if its a weave or my natural hair and
Fuck those motherfuckers who say “gracias” instead of “thank you” and say croissant with a French accent.
Fuck the world for putting me there.
Fuck me for the life that I live.
And ladies, if you ever find yourself shopping there, try to avoid the cereal aisle,
Wear a long shirt to cover up your ass, and moderate to no make-up.
Otherwise your cake will be deemed “fluffy,” as mine has been prescribed.
This rage envelopes my mind every night on the train ride from Upper West Side to Brooklyn.
Fuck You MTA.
I walk from one station to the next,
Then it was interrupted.
Tall, strong; he’ll grow up to be a handsome man some day.
Saggy jeans, loose cap, nice belt and watch—of course The Pig would frisk The Kid.
The Pig grabbed The Kid here and there,
Grabbed his pockets,
Checked his shoes, and under his cap,
And even checked The Kid’s underwear.
With each grab more and more,
The Kid’s innocence was stolen.
The tears He cried from red eyes:
No one would answer His calls.
I learned the hard way, the state of the
Rich, dark ebony skin, no. 1 threat to The Man.
No hero will come
Help The Kid
Teach The Kid,
Save The Kid from The Pig.
What classroom will teach us of Malcolm’s journey from Little to X?
Instead we all know of old, rich, white men.
Just not the slaves they owned nor
Their sons who own us.
Us… All of us.
Even The Pig feeling up The Kid’s nutsack.
His whiteness will only take him so far.
Fuck the badge on The Pig’s chest, he won’t keep us safe, he’s just a bitch to the system.
I'm a bitch too.
I saw The Kid cry.
And read The Pig’s contempt.
But. I. Did