Galactical Diss

by Alexis Riddick

 

To the white moon

That centers itself in dark spaces

And leaves no room for

My existence,

Whose whiteness

Creeps into my skin

And forces me to find

A new home,

Making my experiences

Your un-humble abode:

You should thank me.

You stay sheltered

Under the roof of my

Horrors

Meanwhile I

Speak

To blank stares and blinking eyes and

Listen

To your large monopolies of conversation,

You must have stocks

In free speech

And are therefore

Unwilling

To give someone else

A spot

But

Imagine all the poems

That would have never been birthed

If paper

Was unwilling to make space

For the ink.

Chilling, isn’t it?

You

Ghost of American history textbooks,

I mean

Propaganda, are

Hooded figures

Taking black lives in the night

And talking over black voices in classrooms

While walking with black bodies in marches

I

Am not a

Black body waiting to be silenced.

Let our words ring

And actually

Pick up the phone

I’m

Calling on you

To leave room for me

In my own

Safe space.

It’s not so

Safe anymore

There’s not much

Space anymore

And

We

Won’t be pleading with you

Any longer

This

Is the last day you put

“Colored”

On that little corner

Of my own house

As if

You’re putting me in time-out

Just for being

Now tell me:

How does it feel

To be on the receiver’s end

Of discomfort?