poetry

To The Brown Skin Boy Who Held My Hand in Public... by Lauren Rascoe

photo by Kevar Whilby from Unsplash

photo by Kevar Whilby from Unsplash

To the brown skin boy who held my hand in public,

I respect you because you gave me something in a moment that no one else could. A neutral body in my atmosphere of indifference that reminded, in this chaotic world, there is hope and hope feels good. In the purest form, you held my attention gently. Tenderly. And walked next to me as presently as you could while I battled myself tirelessly, trying to remain hidden behind the strong black girl. By my side you stood sturdy while I went to war silently and I didn’t for one second think I deserved to have you. In those moments you showed me in clear view the beauty of my own reflection in the depths of your eyes; dismantling the lies I told myself about me. It was hard not to see me from your point of view. And your presence made it difficult for me to dwell in the tornado of my own thoughts twisted up in my past experiences and the uncertainty of my future. You made me live in the moment. And it felt good to.. even after your presence became a memory. I find myself always trying to get back there, to that place, because quite frankly, you did more for me than either of us knew.

(because, I think God was trying to teach me a few things through you. )

So I respect you, honestly. And truly. Because your hand helped pull me through and taught me, sometimes life doesn’t have to be done by one’s self.

I’m always looking for the ways to tell you, to show you, I appreciate you.

I can’t help, but say thank you, again and again, because…

I never knew how desperately I needed my hand held.