I am no longer sure what I am responsible for.
and it is eating me up.
I am responsible for rape.
I mean, not the actual raping.
or the helping of all victims.
But the conversation.
the exhausting conversion that tears me apart from the inside.
the one that asks, “What was she wearing?”
“Where were her parents?”
“What about choices?”
I am responsible for yelling, “NO.”
and punching that conversation square in the jaw.
I am responsible for that.
Because I know better.
because I teach girls.
because I am a girl.
conversations about rape should be about rape.
conversations about rape should be about rapists.
not personal safety
and I know that
so I am responsible.
I am responsible for racism.
I mean but not to much.
Because my privilege is a gift
but also a card that says,
“Shut up, you’re white.”
And I’m okay with that because I can only own so much.
But in a place the color of sheets
more often then not things go unsaid
and we, the most educated, hold up our cards and say
I don’t own that.
I can’t own that.
You do it.
You, someone else, do something.
Because I can’t own everything.
So I own nothing.
So when I know something is wrong
I toss and I turn and I churn and I say nothing
because there is too much snow
and I can only yell so loud before the conversation becomes about
that white girl.
the one who won’t shut up.
the one who doesn’t know how to carry
the weight of all the things she doesn’t own.