Black Blood

Image source: google.com
A white man once asked me: why are you black?

I shrugged, hid the detest of the hate he spat under my unceasing laughter, stood still, and sent my eyeballs into his eyes so even when he shuts them he could still see me.

I answered:

My melanin filled skin comes with an unfathomed stubbornness, that whenever I bathe the surface with bleached oil, I end up harming my soul yet not becoming white.

My skin is rooted from melanin blood, whenever a fresh wound opens, thick black pigments find their way out.

The melanin found me worthy; gave me wings to fly like a bird freed from a dusty cage.

It sprouts my colour on every tree, bearing fruits that sing songs like a nightingale.

It found me worthy that it wears me permanently like an armour plating; gives me a metal hat to shade my head from thorny words.

I might be a victim of non privilege, with a black face, placing me inferior to some worlds.

But the melanin found me worthy...

Who am I to say no?