I love my brown skin.

My natural curl pattern is awe-worthy.

My blackness helps define the perfection that is me.

I’m unwaveringly proud of my strong Black roots that have flourished to create me,

and I think Chocolate women are the most astounding beings in this entire galaxy.

There’s no other person on this planet that I’d want to be but brown me.

But, while I am pro-Black in every aspect and support my brothers,

I wish I didn’t fall in love with a Black man.

 

I love a Black man, deeply.

Love him to the point I’d give him my last breath.

I love him so much that I don’t want to share him with anyone.

We have created a world for just the two of us to live away from the calamity of reality.

As if our inner souls had only two purposes: to find each other and never separate.

I love his light brown skin.

I am crazy for his dimples that only appear when he laughs or smirks.

His full lips and tan hands fit perfectly with mine.

We are every bit of a Black fairy tale.

I used to relish the thought of creating a miniature us someday.

And regardless of how many arguments and fights we’ve had, how many neck rolls, slammed doors and unfortunate tears, I know this Black man is the only man that I could ever love, and will ever love me.

We are the same.

And so, we were in love in this fantasy world where we were protected from all hurt, harm or danger.

But I forgot that the world him and I lived in was imaginary to others, and reality was that as much as I loved even the most annoying parts of him, there were others that hated his light brown skin and a bounty was out for anyone his color or any other variation of brown.

To see, over and over again, men being killed who looked like they could be his brother—it has caused me to worry every moment of my day.

Constantly, in the back of my mind, I’m overthinking every second I don’t know where he is.

Will he make it home safe? Will I get a dreadful phone call? Would he be mistaken for another Black man and gunned down without reason? Would I lose my sole purpose for life and heartbeat to senseless violence and police brutality?

Worrying about his safety has become my obsession.

I am basically resigned to the fact if he ever died, I’m dying too from a broken heart. A person cannot live without half of their self.

I have anxiety that you would not believe. If a text message or phone call goes unanswered, I’ll begin to check the news praying I won’t see or hear the phrase “Black man shot and killed today by local police.”

What if he got pulled over and they opened fire? What if he was walking out of the corner store and was strangled to death? What if he was looking at a toy gun at Walmart and was shot dead? What if he was eating his favorite candy, Skittles, and some guy attacks and kills him?

I spend less time enjoying him and more time trying to protect his life.

I don’t want to have his children anymore. I don’t want to have any children. Because the only thing I would love more than him in this world would be a little human made up of us both.

Because what if my son was killed at the BART station “accidentally”? What if my son was gunned down while playing in the park? What if my son was wrongfully imprisoned and left to die in a jail cell?

Why doesn’t the world value the life of the person I live for?