my skin is not ivory,
it is not a creamy pallid tone
with a dusting of scarlet on my
cheeks
my skin is the colour of the sands
that i played in as a child
my hair is the shade of the mountains
from which my ancestors descended
my eyes are liquid, like melted chocolate
and the way my father drinks his coffee
i am the colour of earth, of leather bound books, of
deserts over water, of a lions fur, of flowers
and gingerbread and caramel and honey
i am brown
YOU ARE READING
sunshine under your ribs
Puisinot everyone has good days. poetry, from yours truly.
