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I only had eyes for you The way your cheeks turned raw  At the slightest inconvenience And your eyes gently watered  At every scolding
I’m not Black enough Yet my hair grows like a crown atop my head  Watered with the tears of my ancestors Who used their crowns to guide them to freedom  
To the non-Afro-Latinos who think they can the n-word: There is no black pass, when there’s no pass from being black. When you say the word, you devour a piece of me
Mine, the color of salted toffee Hers, a delicate cream The perfect layer of latte foam That lowers my self-esteem   Or maybe it's more of a porcelain white Only opinion knows
The chains you often wore around your neck, are the chains That were wrapped around your ancestors necks, arms, and legs  The hatred you wore so proud upon your neck was the same 
Dear black men, Who like to quack  About us females being Too black Comparing us to  “Tip of a match” I bet
Paint me a world where girls sustain from mirrors, where love is not weakness, and forgiveness is not taken for blame.
Black Girls, you are one with the earth Black Girls, they like to hit you where it hurts Black Girls, your skin is not dirt
Getting named called from my own fucking community is hard.   Laugh at me For my black shade For my black hair For my black face
Oh she too dark. Oh she too picky. Oh she too skimpy. And her hair looks nappy. But she looks at herself... And she thinks happy. She ain’t wimpy. More so Out here getting
Can you hear me now? If you can’t I can only wonder how Why is it the only way to get your attention?
There once was a beautiful queen She had skin like honey, eyes like emerald, and hair as big as cotton candy. She was so beautiful  and kings traveled far and wide to make her their bride.
When I was a child I was told that I was black but not black black. I didn't quite fit into the pre-packaged, tick-one-only boxes society had for me. Which made it difficult when trying to find my place. 
  I pledge allegiance to the Racism of the United States of America, and to the Rich, White, and Wealthy for which it stands, one Nation under a Christian God, divisible,
It didn't use me for my brain,  It didn't use me for my love, It didn't use me for the way I watch and listen to the birds in the sky,  It used me for my White.    It loved you for your voice, 
All my life I had to fight All my life I had to fight I fought My family The people I thought were my friends Even that fool down the street
I'm sorry my hair offends you im sorry its puffy curls block your view you made me feel ashamed when i had cornrows in while being so young but now you call them boxer braids
She's a god among many With her swift toungue Her independent success Give you the vibe she was stung Her low self esteem Fueled by her curly serpents Assimalation causes her to perm
  You become obsessedwith papaya soap.12 years old. Pampaputi,they say.for your armpits.for your elbows.for your knees.for your…body.
  I feel the burn of the smelly and strong relaxer on my head The chemical takes hostage of each of my natural curls and permanently damages it
  I’ve always felt the need to be lighter In my 6th grade they always called me black girl They said my dark skin would never be as beautiful as their almond colored flesh I believed them
I’m black I promise I am I love fried chicken Mac and cheese Collard greens Watermelon? My taste buds say no But don’t take my black card just yet
A black guy once told me that I'm "not his type" "Nah," he said. "I don't fuck with them black girl types".  He  said he likes them Spanish types, them mixed chick types, them white girl types, them "exotic" types. 
    Blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Blacker the berry, the deeper the roots. Blacker the berry, the more it's dehumanized by its own kind. Blacker the berry, the more it's harder to find.
television is a place where people do not look like me at all
One brown paper bag. It all started with one brown paper bag Against the charcoal of Mother Africa And the sandpaper of Nefertiti, And the rift grew into a canyon. The cocoa-drenched emperors
What is she?What is she?High Yellow? Or black?The mother looks at her child.The newborn looks back.Skin dark as charcoal,Light brown eyes,What a sight!
"Wassup G, why you frontin'? Ain't we gon hit up your homeboy Jermaine today?" Laughter bubbles up from amongst my classmates as I try to emulate their ebonics
I once used to wake up and pray
the poppies I walked along the trail I traveled frequently.  Why did all the poppies die? Is it because the sky did not cry for their sorrows and the grew bitter and dried up? 
My skin cannot find its’ purpose in newspapers uncomfortable it makes you ashamed guilt makes you look dirty little girl played slavery when she was seven tar baby
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