She should have been proud because the sun kissed her more than anyone else.
Her skin, the endless depth of melanin, the color so hard to perfect.
Animals of the wild knew her as a God for she could not be found in the woods of night, the moon giving enaugh light on the brown to tease the predators.
She hated it - continuously comparing herself to the ones she called perfect. Each drop of bleach she rubbed into her skin- as I watched the colours fade I begun to fade
The sun which she absorbed had begun to hide behind the clouds because of her actions. And I begun to fade watching her remove the skin of a goddess.
YOU ARE READING
I Preach
PoetryThese aren't poems but declarations of the beauty of "her". In the age of ones beauty being stolen from them and claimed as their own it's harder for "her" to stand out of the crowd. "He" kisses her scars which were once wounds. Skin pierced by the...
