Whisperings of Jim Crow

Challenged with it all my life. The kids laughing, the kids talking. Enemies and friends alike. Always left wondering why. Wondering why I look this way. Pondering why I can't be like her. Or why am I who I am. Who am I? I hated it then, and I loath it now. Nothing has changed, nothing will change. I hate that I am black. There, I said it. Not aloud, but the words are out. I hate that, on a regular day, I am compared to night. I hate that, on a summer day, I am compared to tar. I hate that I am the darkest shade, of blackness. And, when the sun comes out, I only get darker. I hate, that everywhere I go, I'm always the first, second, or third blackest person around. In a sea of white, I am a flaw. I hate, that no matter how hard, I scrub, it never goes away. It's not dirt, it's my complexion. And, that realization, kills me. Struggling with this, is fatal. It's not something I can rid myself of. It's a part of me, that I wish would disappear, like me, when the lights go off.