Black.

I cry because I am insecure;

Consumed by the shame of my appearance,

Features I condemn my own body for, its form I cannot alter.

I am connected to the tiger stripes that lace my absent hips, growing into thighs that know no boundaries yet still so confined, from big to small my territory constantly shifts

In days I can transform.

Unsteady reads in my uneven complexion, acne that bites holes I’m the pores of my face.

My shade never changes though.

You can see into my soul.

 

Flesh hangs uneasy just as it is too tight, you can see my skins and bones

I feel your stares.

There are always stares.

Someone Is always looking, and when it is not a glance it is a word

But when they speak I hear nothing.

 

And when it is time to stand up, you sit silent.

 

I am already insecure.

 

Hours concealing the depth of a bruised eye defeated by the harsh, strain of the day’s sunlight that exposes it.

A face of foundation with tears that water the plants of a nation, birthed.

They cry “The Walls of Baghdad are bleeding!”

A woman is dragged to the very earth that yield her harvest.

Tortured and raped, the blood that courses in her veins, she lays in its puddle.

The man runs off with her spirit, clinging to him like a banshee,

To fight a brother who will kill him too

Because nobody survives.

 

We die in wars and scores;

Thieving to live and living to die –

The addiction is a cycle.

An American Horror Story that scares even the lowly in the land of milk and honey

They steal from us and dig us deeper into the hole of

Dust and ashes

I am darker yet of all shades

 

I long for a life of colour.

Gradient cyan skies and piercing violets, intrusive red.

But I am confined to the roots of suffering where black means endless pain, and there is no compromise for it.

It lives on in a million and one ways through history.

I am the dust and ashes

 

 

 

 

What are you looking for?