I Finger a Coil of My Hair and Tug

My Black skin not the image of depression,

We are expected to be strong,

To suffer in silence,

Scared of being diagnosed,

Told to pray,

Do Russian Ballet,

Eat Blueberries.

Have you ever sat in a hospital waiting room,

After trying to kill yourself,

And been made to feel like a criminal?

I see how they treat the pretty White girl and me differently.

I’m ushered out of A&E,

Without being seen by a doctor,

Still bleeding,

I smear my heritage on the walls,

Feeling castrated further by the Angry Black Woman stereotype.

My social worker calls,

He says ‘Negro’ on the phone to me,

My sick note has my ethnic background as ‘White’,

Can they not see the colour of my skin?

They tell me it doesn’t matter,

They told me I don’t matter,

Even though trauma is woven into the fabric of my skin,

If I pull the loose threads will I come undone?

I finger a coil of my hair and tug.