“You Speak Good English”

I tried to remain neutral
as the microagression dangled
like a match in front of
a pool of gasoline,
anger that could erupt
into exaggerated flames.
Do you think you belong here
more than me
just because I’m a few shades different?
I was neutral, not smiling,
because that was already
impossible.

I drank the medicine,
washed the sourness over
the sides of my tongue,
swallowed,
a ring of residue
at the back of my throat.
I needed water to
remove the
bitterness. 

And even though the taste’s
gone now,
it lingers in my stomach,
making its way
to my mind
to taunt the pride I have in my identity,
making assumptions
about me as a person
just on something as superficial as
the color of my skin.

And no matter how much sweetness
would coat the burning
halo of my throat,
the matchstick
would relentlessly 
dangle over
the gasoline
that could ignite
at any moment.