I never chose
The color of my skin
But I am ashamed
Of what
It has come to mean.
This whiteness
Of mine
Is no privilege
When I burn
In the light of the sun.
In art
White is the absence
Of color,
Bland
Dull
Lifeless.
And when it is bright
It blinds you
To the beauty
Of other things.
In art
Black is the combination
Of all colors,
The mixture
That makes
Midnight.
Such full darkness
Hides the beauty
Of everything.
In the end
The color of all blood
Is red,
For underneath,
We are the same.
And I choose
The beauty
Of all.
The full spectrum.
The whole palette.
