For years
I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.
It felt as if it belonged to someone else
As if it were clothes that I had borrowed.
But when you borrow clothes they don't exactly fit right.
They used to tell me I was white.
Because I spoke properly.
I was well mannered.
I wasn't into rap music.
Not mention my legs were ashy.
I can't tell how many times they told me I wasn't black.
I guessed they didn't expect me to take it seriously.
I hated my hair.
The only thing besides my skin that showed that I was black..
I hated how poofy it was.
It would never just lay flat.
It was too nappy.
It looked dead.
It felt dead
It probably was dead.
Because the only way I could ever feel pretty was when I permed it, straightened it, changed it.
I didn't realize I was killing my hair so it'd look like something it'd never be.
For years
I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.
But it is my skin.
It has been marked with scars and lost memories .
My mother has always told me that in order to know who are and where you're going you have to know where you come from.
I know where I come from.
I come from Harriet Tubman navigating the underground railroad.
I come from black women taking care of children who will eventually see them as less than as their own.
I come from Martin Luther King Jr. Leading marches. 
From men and women marching for our rights.
From cornbread and chittlins.
From hot combs perms twists and braids.
I will never fit the stereotypes pressed against my race.
My hair will never be flat and straight.
But I don't care.
Because I am black and beautiful and proud
My naps are perfect. My poof pristine.
My skin is mine.
Isn't it pretty?
My skin is mine.
Can you see it gleam?
My skin is mine.
And that can't be taken away easily