My red and grey striped t-shirt on
Zipper placed half way up my neck
I climb into my beach blue hoodie
but the hood’s not up quite yet
I look around as I am walking
There are decisions I must make
I see a mum with her two kids
and it affects my mental state
Because I remember when I was robbed
A hooded fellow black man’s victim
and he left me feeling ill
and paranoia was a symptom
but I don’t know this ladies’ tale
and I don’t think that she is racist
Maybe I really hate myself?
Maybe this hood just makes me faceless?
Yes! Maybe it’s that she doesn’t know me:
naïve she is to my intentions
But I should think more of myself
and throw away these apprehensions
Why do I think that she should fear me
when I have given her no reason?
I’m in a country where someone’s race,
unlike The States, is not a beacon
Yet I don’t know why I’m so conscious
of the colour of my skin.
I’m pretty sure I’m black and proud
but then, what is this doubt within?
Why am I scared that I will scare her?
Why do I feel like such a burden?
Why am I grateful she’s so nice
and why, of me, am I not certain?