The Shade Of It All.
Okay
Take a deep breath.
You can do this.
Three.
Two.
One.
Search for the shade.
Browsing,
Exploring,
Looking.
Getting to my shade.
Almost at my shade.
Annnnddddd....
It's not there.
The shade,
Is that they don't have my shade.
Isn't it funny?
Some make-up companies Ray Charles me
And ignore me,
But for other people,
My rich shade is all
That people see from me.
I'm an educated queen,
Yet people think I'm keen
For my shade
To be all that is seen of me.
The shade of it all.
In a previous time,
Locked in the Pandora's box
In my mind,
I was sentenced
To a daily verbal stoning
In the playground,
Or the classroom,
By people
That should have understood me,
That should have held my hand,
That should have stood by me.
But no,
They threw stones.
Cold, hard stones.
Made stronger
By the depth of colourism
And hidden self-hate
That is just as deep
As the colour of my skin.
How could they see my skin
As anything more
Than plain ugly,
When the tainted mirror of society
Refused and still refuses
To reflect my image,
In its shattered frame
Of idealistic beauty?
How could they see me
As beautiful,
When the phrase:
"You're pretty for a dark skin girl"
Exists?
Dark skin cannot equal prettiness
The same way that 2+2 does not equal 5
In their eyes.
Listen,
Being dark skinned and pretty,
Is not a chemical equation
That you have to balance on both sides
For it to make sense.
So ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust,
Let this crusty phrase,
Go back to the grave
Of other dead phrases
That nobody should say.
Moving on.
The invisible blood
That I shed,
Every single time I was beaten
With those stones,
Was tainted with the blood
Of my ancestors,
Who went through
The same damn treatment,
From hands significantly lighter
Than our own hands.
Not covered by the dirt
Of the menial tasks
Our ancestors were forced to do,
But coated in a potent mixture:
Our blood,
Our sweat,
Our tears.
And,
Just a dash
Of unjustified, harrowing murders.
And yes,
The physical chains
May be broken,
But the mental chains
From slavery,
Have become stronger than ever.
Almost unbreakable.
Stop focusing on my damn skin.
How about we focus
On how bullets
Love to penetrate
This dark skin?
Or how about we focus
On how our skin,
Our ancestry,
Our names,
Makes society create
A dark skin Himalayas,
That some people can't climb.
That kills some people
Before they even reach
The halfway mark.
Or even better,
How about we focus
On the fact that our blood
Is still being openly enslaved
In 2017.
In the 21st Century.
In the "modern" world.
Yes,
My skin is beautiful.
Yes,
It may be flowing
With rich melanin,
But my mind is overflowing
With wisdom
That I try to feed you
To bring yourself
Out from the thirst of ignorance.
If you choose to drink
From ignorant minds,
I'd like to say
That it's not my business.
But when you try and taint
My mind,
Society's mind
That my skin is ANYTHING
Other than
Beautiful,
Powerful
Or acceptable,
Then baby boy,
Baby girl,
We're gonna have problems.
I want people to see me.
ME.
My skin is a part of me,
But I want you to see ME.
The only people
That should take a good look
At my shade,
Are these make-up companies,
That are still trying it
In 2017,
With their 50 shades of beige.
But you?
I want you to see my intelligence,
My inner beauty,
My happy demeanour,
My sweet nature.
Just see me for what I am:
A queen;
That still has a long way to go
To achieve all that she can be.