The Skin

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Beneath my skin, the earth still softly speaks,

In roots that knew their bond before all words.

It threads my veins with memory of soil-

but do you hear, or only hear yourself?

***

You named my shade before you knew my name,

And built a scale where light was crowned as worth.

What hand declared your brightness truth alone?

And who am I within the lines you drew?

***

My skin bears not the measure of my soul-

can you not see beyond what sight has taught?

Does color hold the weight of what I am,

Or must I live confined within your gaze?

***

The same sun casts its fire on both our forms-

why must I learn to question how I shine,

While you stand certain in a borrowed light?

Am I the shadow, or the truth you fear?

***

The forests speak in tones I’ve always known-

have you not paused to listen to their calm?

The mountains stand, unbending, whole and still-

must strength be loud for you to call it real?

***

The rivers move unruled toward their own source-

why must I ask for space to simply flow?

And why must I unlearn the roots I hold,

To wear the shape of truths you claim as mine?

***

Your shifting creeds, like seasons out of place-

are these your truths, or fears you hide as law?

Do you not feel the earth beneath your steps,

Or only see the ground beneath my feet?

***

In painted worlds, the living land turns pale-

do you not see the soil begin to break?

If wind forgets the language it once knew,

then who among us learns to speak again?

***

No skin can hold the vastness that I am-

so why must I be named by what you see?

No hue defines the measure of my breath-

then what is it you truly see in me?

***

So let the silent ground return this truth:

my worth was never written in my shade.

Beyond your lines, beyond the names you gave-

will you now see me, or just see my skin?


"A profound silence can hold more weight than any words" Fourlinegraphia

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