My skin is a map
of everywhere I have been
and all the places I have yet to go.
Up north, a waterfall
of dark, luscious curls
cascade gently down my face.
Down south are the vehicles
of this journey
marked with the blisters and
bruises
from taking the wanderer’s path.
To the east and west
point the hands
that have tried to hold the weight
of the world
which ended up slipping through my fingers
like a leaky pipe.
My skin is a museum
the scars long faded
evidence of battles fought
to make my way in the world.
And proudly on display
are my taut muscles
pulled tight like strings on a cello
that have played in many games, run several races, and carried
me through this journey we call
life.
My skin is a blend of
my mama’s richness,
my daddy’s strength,
and the rest
I’m still figuring out
but what I know for certain
is that my skin is not up for sale.
It is not open from Monday to Friday
and only closed on statutory holidays.
It is not open for business.
My skin is not a passport
for you to send me “back to where I came from.”
My hair is not a toy
it is the crown of a queen
who sits on her throne
and will not be poked
and prodded
like the winning project of a science fair competition.
It will not be the player to be chased down by suspicious retail employees,
the men and women in blue, the neighbourhood
patrol or anyone
who has the audacity to claim
that my skin has no place
in this city.
I want to be alive, awake and love each inch of my skin
explored and yet to be discovered
not to fall at the hands of
oppressors
because I am Black.
