Racism - Though the Eyes of the Misjudged

You judge me for my skin.
I can sense the disgust radiating from your pores.
The fear.
The anger.
The hatred.
We haven't even met. No words are exchanged. Communication a distant dream.
You glance at me again.
I can feel your stare burning into me; knifes stabbing at my flesh. If looks could kill.
"N***er" you mutter. An old man nods in agreement. You take a step back. Away from me.
I don't mean you any harm. I want to yell. Yet I don't. I am too scared.
Scared you will disagree. Scared you will hate me more.
The bus pulls up, the old man gets on, you get on and I follow.
You throw me a dirty look, so does the old man. Yours is worse.
I am just going to the markets I want to say. Again, I don’t.
You look around choosing a spot near the middle.
I sit near the front, not wanting to offend you further. You stand, moving to the back of the bus.
Shooting me another dirty look as you go.
 I am harmless. The words at the tip of my tongue, begging to be released.
You pull a book from your bag. Alice in Wonderland, I notice. One of my favourites. I smile, you recoil in horror.
It's like you forgot I am human, capable of emotions other than rage and anger. 
Two ladies hop on the bus, chatting loudly. They stop, noticing me. Without a word, they leave.
You look up and smirk.
I sink deeper into my seat. Wishing to go unnoticed.
The minute’s tick by.
The bus stops at the outskirts of a popular market place.
You are quick to leave, I follow slower.
The bus pulls away, you turn around, fury evident in your gaze.
“Stop following me, you brown-skinned freak” you thunder.
Stepping closer and closer with each word.
I back away slowly, scared of what you will do 
“It's people like you that make me sick”.
People like you. The words echo in my head.
People.
Like.
You.
 I open my mouth to reply and yet the words never come out.
“Don't ever think of speaking to me, you common filth”
I turn, backing away faster this time. Scared of what you might do. 
You make no move to follow, choosing to hurt me with your words instead.
“Scum” you shout
“Dirty scum infecting my great country. 
My, not our. 
Never our. 
My.