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