My Skin

My skin is a sentiment of disgust and treachery, instilling trepidation to the untrusting, embedding guilt throughout my spine. I cannot stand. My skin taunts the strangers that tarry at the end of the street to leave, they say I carry the black death on my sleeve. But 1353 is well behind me, and my arms are bare and brown and sleeveless. The rich colour undeniable; admittedly expressive, simultaneously speechless. I am not a disease, i manage to whisper, but time will never tell. Time does not yell nor validates my hell — but the creator of time does not punish me for the colours of my sleeves, or of my skin.

He punishes for the blackened heart.

• racism is a lie