A Furniture Store

A Furniture Store

I’m sitting in a furniture store on a nice love seat.

I think it’s called a love seat.

Isn’t this called a love seat?

No. It’s just a couch.

There goes me,

Trying to be extra with my words again.

Everyone trashes this furniture store,

But it has some really good furniture for real.

To me, it’s legit.

There are white people passing me by in the furniture store,

And I think that I'm the only black person here.

White people always look so happy and comfortable.

Why can’t I be more like that?

Why can’t I be more happy and comfortable?

And why is there no music playing in this store?

Isn’t music supposed to make people comfortable?

Even though this couch does feel comfortable,

Perfect for roomy temperatures and lots of cuddling,

I am not comfortable.

I have anxiety.

I don’t take medication for it but I probably need to.

A week after I turned 28 years old,

My hair stopped producing the pigment that gives my hair its natural color,

And started going gray.

I am much too young to worry this much about anything,

But I do.

I'm a cynic so I worry.

I worry too much about becoming too optimistic.

Because too much optimism makes you naïve.

In fact,

Whenever life is going too well and something good happens,

I usually can’t help but wonder how long it will last.

I am black so I worry.

If I walk into a candy store,

Or any store for that matter,

And I don’t see anything that I want,

I still have to buy something anyway so no one falsely accuses me of stealing.

Wish me luck while in this furniture store.

Wish...

Me...

Luck.

I am female so I worry.

I carry a whistle around my neck,

Along with pepper spray for predators.

And I always ask God for his protection any time I leave a place.

And I always have to make sure that I make it home before a certain time,

So that no one will get me.

I don’t make a lot of money so I worry.

I have a savings account.

And a checkings.

Because I believe in rainy days because they always come and go.

What does comfort to me feel like?

I am sitting in a furniture store.

Pretending to be the bravest adult that I can be,

By putting on a front that I have myself together.

When in reality,

I am scared.

I'm always scared.

What does comfort to me look like?

I am riding a bike outside,

And the sun hits my face,

And the light is so warming and welcoming.

And the sun says that I no longer have to worry about student loans,

Or racial or gender problems.

The sun tells me that I can now afford to have children whenever I want.

And I can walk into that candy or liquor store without worrying about being racially profiled.

The sun hits my face,

It’s giving my skin a nice glow

And the sun says,

Everything is gonna be okay.

Everything is finally gonna be okay.

Every thing is okay.

Finally...