Note this poem is being told from the perspective of a person with skin insecurity. (Meaning it is not based on my personal experiences).

Live. Love. Laugh.

My skin isn’t pretty.
Painted, ruined like graffiti.
Peel back the skin,
And all I find is more melanin.
It’s dark and tainted.
Acquainted with mark and scars,
Discarded like ends of cigars.
My skin isn’t pretty.
Told to be “normal and clean”. Don’t know what that means.
Normal skin is not normal at all.
Unless it’s as white as drywall.
Pretty when I’m lighter in pigment.
Stringent to the colors of my skin.
Love the chemicals I soak within.
Lighter and lighter I have to be,
For nicer and prettier company.
My skin isn’t pretty.
It never will be.
But my skin is me.
And I will always show my beauty.

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