Not titled yet, What yall think I should call this?

Her middle finger on her left hand right above her knuckle was scratched.

The contrast of her black skin stretched tight over her hand against her off white

Meat being exposed always fascianated her.

She stared at her middle finger on her left hand where her skin was scrapped

And cracked open like a plum that had been split exposing its inner flesh.

She often wished that miracously one day she would wake up,

Shower, and see her deep plum colored flesh begin to peel away like the skin

Of an overripe fruit.

Leaving her covered in the dazzling off white meat that adorned her middle finger.

She knew this was impossible.

So she prayed.

She prayed to a porcelain God, regurgating all of her soul that

Had over the years become accustom to binging on lies until her very being

Was swollen and hurting.

She craned her kneck upward and prayed to the stars.

Flipping through them wishing so desparetly to ascend to glory and take her place

Next to them.

She stared at her middle finger and stared down at the scale.

She counted the glistening, twinkling beings that almost seemed unreal.

As closely as she counted everything that she placed to her lips to ingest.

And bring back up for reexamining.

She had no doubt that she was a beautiful black women…

Who looked better red.

So she kneeled several times of day to spit out a prayer that exposed her soul

And lunch to a merciful deity that would allow her ascendance into the stars…

Into beauty, into acceptance.