By Sarah Davis
Digitized remnants of melanin vacant skin
monopolize the magazines my daughter studies.
The Bluest Eye cradles her,
convinces her that her raven features are deficient.
Kenneth Clark’s dolls scold her.
Tell her to be alabaster,
achromatic, immaculate, pure.
As if her hide is contaminated.
She transforms into a stained version
of the girl with the dream house,
pink convertible, pliable positions with
She sharpens her nose, lightens her eyes,
varnishes her skin with pale wishes.
The beauty microcosm straps her to the rack,
shapes her physiognomy, sucks out her roots.
I kiss her forehead,
Tell her she’s my cosmos
as she locks herself away
in a pretty pink box.
Reblogged this on Another Kind Of Grass.
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