They loved that they were whiter than fresh snow,
So they laughed when they said we were darker
Than the slosh that remains.
They adored that they were as white as fine sheets of paper
And they snickered when they gossiped that we were the smudged ink
Ran across the lines.
We looked up, and they looked down.
They always looked down…except the times they didn't.
The times where we couldn’t “look” at all.
When they looked up at our bodies in the trees. Our blackened bodies.
Our charred bodies. Our mangled bodies. Our inhuman bodies.
But always blackened bodies.
Why?
Why is the question there may never be an answer to.
But there is a question that I will wonder about, for all of my days.
Why blacken our bodies when being black was the thing they hated the most?
Commentaires