“You’re too dark to be mixed.” I roll my eyes trying not to look too bothered by the comment I hear repeatedly throughout the week.
I often do not even reply. What would be my rebuttal? Instead, I look down on the ground, tap my feet and wait anxiously for someone to change the subject.
They question you, but I don’t dare
You are what you are, a rapturing cape of silk linen over my dry bones and fiery red blood
A bullseye, the targeted, the color that builds nations of a flock too humble to accept it’s reward.
The mirror of the majority of outer space, the vastness of dark matter enclosed in a matrix that refers to it as a minority.
I’ve gulped the lies of generations before me, still stuck in my throat, rotting and bitter, dry & unseasoned.
Awaiting the acidic pool of destruction in my stomach.
By Janell Hihi