I remember you. I try not to – but I do. And each time you break through this wall, I crumble, Denying these feelings are really true. I don’t mean to be ungrateful or to come across distasteful because I’m not But every time I see you – I feel this chasm, tie, tightly, into what feels like a knot. I can’t help but watch you, stare at you from across a room Wishing you’d stare at me too, and I wonder if what I’m feeling This nauseous, giddy feeling – isn’t true. Isn’t because

She’s not just a black girl. She’s a precious stone, carved from the waste of an empress’ diamond case. Her voice priceless. Soft yet sweet like a velvet quill wrapped in lace and coated in a nectar like embrace. She’s not just a black girl. But now her value has been stolen, she’s been made to believe that her worth is as a worthless as a bar of Nivea soap left second place, hidden underneath the countless bars of brass glazed antelopes, only worth 99p but yet, she stops to