The brown of my skin fits in every crevice, and in my palm I gather beads of sweat, like the pearls adorning my mother's neck the night you gave her your hand.
Her incredible visage and your hooded eyes gave me my features.
There are days your booming laughter reminds me of the constant thrumming against my temples; the desire to be valued is a squeezing pressure around my torso, rearranging my organs.
It feels nice, sometimes, to feel so intensely, but then there are days I want the roaring to stop, and the drumming to cease. The water from my eyes, though it may salve my conscience, seeps through my cracks. I cannot let it break me.
Churn me up in my browns and reds and spit me out in gold. Do I fit your image? Tall, light, hair that stays.
Perhaps I am wired differently, like the coils of hair I get caught up in. The itch within my skin never quite subsides. Let me taint your home and your honour – your family name – all because I am a half. I am only just learning what it is to be.
