IDC

They handcuffed me to a chair

Called me white and made fun of my hair

I’m a rap song now I thought

Shouldn’t I be more distraught?

50 Cent will totally be my friend

But will he know?

How I can contact him?

I felt their stares as I rubbed my red hand against the metal chair,

“Do you know what happens to white girls in prison?”

Said a voice that cut the bristled air

“Nope.”

It was raining

They called my Dad

He arrived

The look on his face was familiar: utter disappointment

You’re grounded

No LG flip phone without T9 text

You’re quitting the soccer team

Welp, there goes my dream

I remember wishing that I cared

I just thought it was funny

I didn’t feel anything

My anger dissipated as I stared out the window of his 740iL

Blue BMW, tan leather interior, a car with all the bells

I remember wondering why they put such heinous wood paneling in it

It detracted from it’s beauty and new car scent

I sat in the back to avoid him

I longingly looked at the window buttons

Up was an outlined arrow

Down was a white arrow shaded in

I pushed it

It was raining

It would piss him off

But he was already pissed off anyway

Child lock

Nothing happened

A push with no release

Anticipation with no climax

The floor mats

So white-tan and sand

If only I had muddy cleats in my hand

He never yelled

He raised his voice but even that was rare

I don’t remember what he said

I don’t remember if I cared

I blasted 50 Cent on the silver iPod Mini he gave me for Christmas

Always seeking approval from a man

Dad loved music

I loved Dad

I didn’t mean to make it all bad

I just wanted attention

But he never wanted to listen

Or give me permission

He always assumed I had the worst of intentions

I didn’t know how to express myself at 15

Everything and everyone just felt mean

My self confidence? Only a gleam

Somehow I never ran out of steam