My childhood tasted like favoritism,
fresh, hot-off-the-grill patriarchy seasoned,
guiltless bites of “don’t talk so loud,
don’t have that opinion, don’t show that much skin.”

Devouring a life long diet of “stop crying” and
“no one will love you if you eat like that.”

Partially cooked platters of hypocrisy and conditional love.

So, I hid chocolate under my pillow and snuck out
to find validation from boys who never loved me.
All the while, consuming half chewed snack packs of “I hate my mother.”

As a child, my mother encouraged us to feast on the words of God,
to consume hate and discrimination by the handful because,
according to her, my white skin was the only worthwhile thing about me.

It wasn’t long before I started to feed myself from the books I read.
To twist compassion around my fork twines
and slurp up empathy was a singular revolution for my soul.

When I tasted diversity for the first time,
I knew that I’d never get enough.