So I’m sittin’ on the subway
waitin’ for my stop.
Just ecstatic to go home and relax.

I’m daydreaming about bath bombs
when I notice this guy sittin’ 
right across from me.

He’s lookin’ me up and down
with disgust plastered onto his face.
I’m not sure what to do, 
so I ask him,
“Something wrong Mister?”

He doesn’t respond for a good 
thirty seconds and then just says,
“Yeah,” concluded with somethin’ 
my mother wouldn’t be proud of me sayin’
but you can guess what he said.

Now, I’m not the confrontational type,
So I just slump down in my seat
without sayin’ anything.
I haven’t broken eye contact yet,
so I shoot him a glare.

My thoughts start to cloud
as I look away.
I’m thinkin’ about
how all these girls are
making my race into a 
challenge.

My body is not a costume 
that anyone can put on for the day.
My body is a temple,
and I am the only one
who can change it.

But why would I want to
change it?

Oh right,

because these

Euro-centric beauty standards

claim that I'm not beautiful.

They've said that I can't

be a ballerina.

They say it's because 

my hips will grow too big,

my butt will grow too big,

and my boobs will grow too big.

I'm a beautiful ballerina

in my own way

I can jeté better than

all these white girls can.

But still, 

there is doubt constantly

swirling around in my head.

and I wonder if I'll ever 

have the grace 

that these other

girls have.

 
I let my head clear just as
the subway car stops 
and I realize it’s my stop.

I gesture toward this man
as I’m leaving.
He’ll probably forget about this.

But I won’t.

I’m going to put this memory 
into my eternally burning fire
for the disrespect to my culture
and myself.
 
I’m gonna go home and relax. 

For now.