Sometimes I run the streets, sometimes they run me -Morgan Parker
I don’t know what I think I’m doing
Pretending I’m well adjusted
Schooling with the white people
Club on a Friday
Laughing in the library
Flirting with young boys and old boys
Yeah you can come see me
Dinner’s some fancy Thai food
I’ll show you I’m made of that material
While deflecting get-to-know me questions about home, about my blessed kin
With a careless shrug and an empty sigh
Why would it ever matter
You say I’m repressing, I say I’m adjusted
I’m accustomed, a compartmentalising queen
I’m over it
I don’t talk shit to death
Wouldn’t you rather appreciate this lingerie
Under my dutiful apron and reborn appearance?
So no, I don’t answer calls from the motherland, if I can help it
Would I ever go back there, if I could help it?
Nevermind baby, nevermind
See, I’ll have you know
If I’m never fully here, then I’m never really there
Always knowing I’m too lucky, too too ungrateful
Over here stuck in my head
Trying to come off as comfortable, in my own skin, well-adjusted.