drowning in the high white tide

I gasp for breath, seeking the courage to speak

I raise my hand, willing some recognition

I utter a question, a complaint, a reflection

but you’re already thinking

of how to shut me down.

drowning in the high white tide

my experience is made irrelevant

or touted as representative

of many brown bodies

i only know extremes

like the casual alternation

between feigned acceptance

(as long as i’m articulate and polite)

and personalized attack

so i stop gasping for breath

i quell my courage with a rising sea of anger

i submerge my hand in the raging waters

allowing the tides to take me

overcome me

flush me out

because i’m nothing more than a statistic

or success story

a number on a page, nameless, faceless

buried beneath the prose of another white savior

hoping that their verbiage masks

their lack of inclusion

but what if i became a mermaid instead of drowning?

what if, somewhere beneath the surface,

i’m watching and waiting

keeping track of your utterances

like dots upon a graph

diminishing you to a black spot

upon a sea of white paper?

unfair! you cry. unproductive! you scream

dejection and critique by the flipped situation felt

where you’re not in control

and you’re suddenly lumped into the consuming white mass

it’s funny everything you notice

in the silence beneath the high white tide.