Who taught you to hate your skin,
your beautiful melanin?
Who taught you to despise your thick lips
the weighted dips and curves God blessed you with and the meeting place of your thighs?
Who taught you to hate the beauty of your broad nose and wide nostrils?
Who taught you to curse your hair, beautiful tight
tendrils of Orphic Elysian fields?
Who taught you to hate your Brown sister, your
I know you feel like the crackled lines of crumpled up paper
thrown away as trash.
I know you feel like the smudge of ink on paper.
But you are the daughter of Eve, cut from the rib of Adam.
Breath of God in her lungs, with the cry of war in her womb.
Trees of truth grow from the backs of your throat, the fruit
pushing through closed mouths, ready to be picked, eaten, digested
If they could, they would cut your skin, peel it back from your flesh
and wear it down runways as if they designed it.
So, who lied to you and told you, you’re not beautiful?
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