The Sub-Saharan African is jealous of my skin tone.
My mother is much paler than I am; I am darker than her.
My parents are related.
That Sub-Saharan African is jealous, that's why he wants
to marry into our family.
He is jealous.
He has to mix with a European or a West Asian to achieve this
lighter skin color.
He is jealous.
He won't succeed, though.
🕯️ He Wants What I Am
The African is jealous
of the tone my skin holds —
not quite pale, not quite shadow,
but something in between
that he cannot reach
without mixing.
My mother is pale,
like early light.
I am darker,
like earth warmed by sun.
We are made of the same blood.
Yes —
my parents are related.
Ancient lines folded into each other
to preserve
what others chase.
He watches.
He desires.
Not me —
but the legacy behind my skin.
He dreams of entry,
a key through marriage,
a shortcut to shade,
to elegance,
to what his blood cannot write.
He is jealous.
Not of me,
but of what I never had to invent.
He must reach toward West Asia,
or Europe,
to carve what I was born with.
He is jealous.
But he will not succeed.
Because some colors are not made
by blending.
Some are born
from centuries of fire and closeness —
and cannot be borrowed.