When I was seven I wanted to bleach my skin. Every hour, I washed up every single time, hoping my golden-brown skin would simply evaporate. No matter how hard I tried, I cried every single night, unable to appreciate my skin. My mom said to me "people would die to have skin like yours" knowing that people get killed for skin like mine. The souls of my ancestors were trampled on and stomped because of the blackness running in my veins. I've learned to love my skin, even though all the little thoughts in my head were telling me that I would have a much easier life if I had white skin. I up-tainted that hatred for my skin, for all those nights I have cried in sorrow for having brown skin like mine. I inherit this skin of mine, I have no more tears left to cry. I want to control this beast inside of me and fulfill it with the glory and peace that my ancestors died for
