What Are You?

I used to believe I oozed femininity.

I realized I ooze sex, not even sexuality.

My color means sex.

My color means distortion, it means jungle fever.

My color means,

I must of grown up fast.

My color means,

I never got to be a child.

My color means,

I know what’s up, so why am I acting brand new?

I’m mulata, prieta, morena, negrita.

I’m black, and sometimes brown, sometimes I’m red, but some call me yellow.

The hues of my existence twist into a spool made up of all my ancestral struggles, but all those struggles are all my beauty.

I’m hues of yellow, and red, sometimes brown, many times black.

Soy mulata, soy negrita, morena, and sometimes prieta.

I never grew up fast,

I learned fast, I grasped reality fast.

I survived fast, I observed fast.

I observed I am my ancestors.

And my ancestors are me.

Because I am sex, I am oozing with the cure of generational struggles.

I am morenita, sometimes prietita, and sometimes negrita, but my favorite es mulatita.

Soy Mulata.