aftertaste

you and me, we
are cut from the same
cloth, yes the
same brown leather,
except you are shiny
and smooth while
i am rough and 
worn out.

we are cut from
the same cloth, but
i know that we are 
not the same.

people would die
for you, longing
for your presence while
i have always been
second best to 
any blonde girl.

you have my brown eyes,
brown skin,
black hair, but
on you it makes 
you special.

when people think
of you, they smile as
if they have tasted something
sweet, while i am the
bitter aftertaste that
they spit out.

i don't get it.
i don't get why i 
have to hide my heritage
to be loved, but
somehow no one cares
about yours?

i really hate 
you sometimes.

why do you get
the world set at
your feet while my fingers
will never reach it?