After walking somewhere between four or five miles, the weight of ten books on my back, I went to the doctor where I was prodded and poked at in near silence. I sat outside afterwards, eating half a sandwich, my ass cold from the concrete slab beneath me, a slab that had done a better job of absorbing my environment than me because I had forgotten to wear sunscreen (stupid, always so stupid!). I wriggled my arms out of the black, black, soft, so yielding sweater I’d worn for comfort because it certainly did not match my outfit (why did I always choose comfort over aesthetic? why was I so goddamn soft?), then turned to the real work of screaming at myself for walking through the world so scared, so skittish of human contact, of human conversations.

It was then that I realized that the fear I had discounted in my parents was real and the dumb, dumb, dumb, stupid faith I had in people was fake.

After all of that, I felt as if I had fought a battle that day.

Tired. I was so tired.

I wanted to go home.

How dare you.

You with your privilege that drips from your brown (not black, not red) skin, your long nose, your broad cheekbones, your wide hips, your fat, that luxurious fat, your weak body, your black hair that curls loose, not tight, not 4C, your shoes, your shirt, your pants, your bag, your purse, your clean ears, your empty hands.

YOU.

How dare you.