I am white.
I think.
At least, that’s what all the other girls say. That’s what my makeup brand says, Porcelain.
But my skin is olive,
My father is dark,
And my situ has sand etched in her hands Deep under her dark nails. Somehow my partner,
Redder than I,
So much darker than I,
Firmly believes
That I am not limited to such a description. It doesn’t do me
Justice.
My hair and eyes like woven wood
Yet they are carved
With others’
Words.
