Morning, after Morning, after morning she stands with her damp towel wrapped around her head,
covering her ears, in hopes of drowning out her thoughts.
Morning after morning,
she stands in the same exact spot. Shivering.
Feeling every single goose bump rise up from her skin,
attempting to escape and follow the hairs that stand tall on her neck.
She stares in the mirror.
Expecting to lock eyes with her eyes,
But with no reflection,
How is she supposed to fix her flaws and insecurities?
She stares into the mirror,
as she begins to smear red paste across her cheek bones.
Smothering her eyelids with smokey, black coals.
Concealer can conceal her questions for so long.
She’s getting tired of this routine.
And even though she wants to respect her epidermis, why should she?
Makeup, straight hair, and colored contacts won’t change
the tint of the skin she’s in. It can’t seem to choose between
black and white, so instead of grey she remains a light mahogany.
Pressure from both sides of the color spectrum, testing her.
As if she can only pick one side or the other. Frustration clouds her mind.
Ashamed that she may never know the story of where she came from.
Where was she supposed to start?
Terrified of the places she has never been and never will be.
Knowing there’s a strong possibility she’ll never get a chance to explore her roots.
Arkansas, Germany, New York, England, Trinidad, Baghdad,
1925, 27, 46, 1963, 68. Knowing places and dates doesn’t feel the same.
She doesn’t mean to complain but she’s tired.
Tired of staring at herself…In the same old mirror.
Morning, after morning.
Wondering if she’s ever going to know the names
of those who spilled their blood for her to enter this world.
Every morning she mourns.