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the man’s hand in which I hold
would not be seen as a spectacle.
If I were in the movie of my mind,
the yellow tint of my skin,
the slant of my eyes,
the flash of my neon nails
would not hang over my head as I walk to the corner store
to simply get a gallon of milk.
If I were in a movie,
my mother would not be labeled as “bitchy”
just for being confident and speaking her truth.
If I were in the movie of my mind, the man
– whose very hand I still reluctantly hold –
would not encroach,
push or pry,
lie or linger.
But in wishing and dreaming for so,
like a too short child who wants to go on a rollercoaster ride,
I realize that I am not in the movie of my mind.