Tinge
Put away the remedies, Mother You know they don't do a thing You know the scrubbing hurts You know I hate the sun I'm not lying, Mother You know I clean myself well When I say I shower daily And conceal inside a shell The worst part, Mother Is that it's inside me It's that my heroes and fancies Rarely look like me I've never the guts To picture myself with them But I know, Mother That they'd not hold that place If they were my shade, had my skin Or looked something like me I speak of love, Mother But loathe my skin My ashy joints; unmatched tint Stripes of brown noose my neck On my waist dark patches rest How sad it is, Mother The melanin hates the bleach Kill this voice inside me I want to be what I preach