My dear,

It's been such a long time since I put pen to paper with you in mind. That's not to say I don't keep you in mind. I could never keep you out of my thoughts for long. I simply avoid writing with that time of my life in mind, but I haven't forgotten. In all honesty, I'm sure that when we were closer I penned enough letters and poems and stories to last you a lifetime. To last us a lifetime. Despite my efforts, I still come across letters to you I never sent. Countless papers filed and I still find more. In those days we shared, those stagnant, festering days, I stayed bent over my notebooks building a world for myself. Out of words I built a home for myself in a strange place far from home. I met you and I built a shelter for you out of words and the old symbols that made up our coded letters. I was a master architect. When we came under scrutiny for being so close I made words my weapons of defense. I became a diversionist and a warrior. I suppose I still am a warrior. I'll always be your architect though.

Thank you, for the harsh reminder that I am undeniably imperfect, that I cannot meet your expectations, and that others are exponentially better than I.

Thank you for the anger and pain that bubbles over from my chest to my head, filling every pocket of my being with resent for myself and those you praise after shutting me down.

Thank you for showing me what it feels like to be at my lowest point, so distressed that I can't paint, or draw, or read, or write because I am so distraught by the paralyzing realization that I and nothing I do will ever be enough.

I know you love me.

I know you're proud of me.

But I don't know why you choose to point out the things you don't love or aren't proud of.

If there was one single thing I could change about our relationship, I would take each of the prickling, withered exchanges of ours and replant them in a garden that is watered by love and fed by encouragement. I would tend to them and nurture them as they transformed from ugly, twisting encounters to tendrils of beauty and adoration.

I could rattle off all the things I admire about you with ease.

I hope one day you will be able to do the same for me.

tell me again it’s not about race. tell me again when a white man gets 3 months in jail for raping a woman but a man selling CDs, trying to make a living for his family is brutally murder. tell me again it’s not about race. when a black man reaching for his id is shot 4 times but a white man can go into a black church and kill 9 people and he is simply arrested. tell me again it is not about race when somehow we fear a black man in a hoodie more than a white man with a backpack walking into a movie theater when in reality the latter has done more harm. tell me one more fucking time it’s not about race when I have to sit and pretend I am not terrified. I have to sit silently and try not to cry. I have to sit and not say a word to try and save a lecture from a white person about how it’s not about race. it’s fucking about race, try and get that through your head. and maybe next time, before you try and tell me it’s not about race, think of how many people just like me, just like my father, I have to see get murdered by people who see dark skin as a crime. last time I checked, my dark skin was beautiful, and it sure as hell should not make me any less of a human being.