Piecing Me Together

by Renée Watson

actually looked across the room at the only other black girl in the class, and she was raising her hand, saying, “She took my answer,” and so I knew we’d probably never make eye contact about anything.

Not all skinfolk are kinfolk

I think about this as I ride to school. How I am someone’s answered prayer but also someone’s deferred dream.

Why do people who can afford anything they want get stuff for free all the time?

And this makes me wonder if a black girl’s life is only about being stitched together and coming undone, being stitched together and coming undone.