Skin

Her skin is too pale, too pink,

They say.

Flickered with reds and blues

Like a paintbrush was dipped in watercolours

And rudely flicked across her face by her creator.

Pale, fawn freckles scatter her, each spot imperfectly placed

On her face, her arms, her chest,

Only but a taste of the melanin one would expect.

A taste of what she secretly craves.

Each red spot, mark, or scar, just an inconvenient reminder

Of her imperfections that alienate her

But also make her feel truly alive.

Her eyes that reflect the subtle azure sky above, the sun,

And even the grassy field she walks upon with her feet bare.

They connect her to this land,

To her ancestors.

Despite her being too pale, too pink,

As they say.