The sound of my voice
The words that won’t make sense
Out loud, unripened thoughts, all while I beg for
Freedom.

The color of my skin that
"Doesn’t belong," what then?
I stood in the river, scrubbing over and over
But no magic, no "Rough Faced Girl"
only dreams of being
Beautiful.

Of the flat, satin black hair,
nimble fingers of loving Mother
backcombed and dutifully woven
so I would walk tall, not feel ashamed.

The bitter air friends unknowingly taught me to inhale and
deliver, pretend that I
have it together, when inside

Real thoughts, immature and
questionable of the existence of truth
Often, I refuse to express
For fear at the sight of the
far road to growth
To admit that I don’t really know anything at all.
But I want to learn.

For lack of eloquence, depth, skill
I compare, contrast, devalue
my narrative, untrustworthy by its
fluidity in the integrity of humanity
Painted on my face, in my stride, the way I love,
Believe, even.
Who am I anymore?

Yet everyday, I stare into my mirror,
into the very eyes of my captor.

Everyday.