I sit above a yawning canyon
on a frayed rope bridge that swings continuously, each motion
stretching the already too-thin fibers that keep my home afloat.
To my right, the worn rope attaches to solid earth. This side is
familiar, pale beige tones beside glossy pink lips
drawn into wide white smiles.
Bright laughter mingles with polite conversation--
everything light and faint and lovely.
To my left, the other end of rope attaches again to solid earth.
The sweet sharp scents of lemongrass and ginger
sting my nostrils, and words punctuated by short syllables
sound foreign to my untrained ears.
It is warm and vibrant and beautiful.
My chest aches with want. It is lonesome here,
on my weary bridge, gazing upon the two worlds
I want nothing more than to be a part of. I long for the rope to
repair itself, granting me a safe passage to each side,
but even I know I cannot undo the past.
So, I sit above a yawning canyon
on a frayed rope bridge that swings continuously,
and I don’t know how to move.
This piece was written to communicate the inner turmoil that comes along with being mixed race.
Cover Photo Source: CDN