I’ve been known to take my coffee the way I like my men: Strong. Milk. Extra sugar. Hold the coffee.
That has always caused a reaction from all the barristas giving their opinion on how my coffee should be.
Growing up, I didn’t understand race relations. I just thought as I was rejected, there was something wrong with me or there was something wrong with them.
As I have gotten older, I realize it’s a little bit of both. I fantisize about having beautiful mixed babies; while I’m just simply another fantasy notch to be put on a belt they don’t even want to wear.
Being a smart , strong black woman has its perks. I can talk to you about anything while making you laugh about everything.
But for the cups of coffee I have had, it’s obvious that you’re only in it for a few sips and I’m thrown away.
You cant bring this cup home to your family. So you hide me in your car or deep in your room. I feel like Harriet Tubman as I follow the drinking gourd to what is true love.
Your voice always seems to change when you’re with me. I understand the dialect that you would talk to your mother with, so why change it to a twang commonly heard on the rap music videos.
I’m calling you out white men. I’m not even remotely subtle. If I have to be hidden in the shadows of who I am, when I’m already proud of what I’ve become, then I’m wasting a mind and self worth on someone who is too scared to man up.
I’m not your “one night only” or your secret late text delight.
I’m not a fantasy, I’m not a pill to swallow, I don’t speak in “Ebonics” and hearing your ghost, translucent skin ask “What that mouth do?” Only makes me want to punch you in the throat.
White men, you should be ever so lucky. I’ve taken a moment out of my day to entertain you. However, I’m not an idiot. I’m not a “slaaaaaaaaaave fa you”
Yes my skin is dark, yes I’m curvy, yes I’ll make you drool, but I’m not a fool.
Don’t hypersexulize my thighs.