i’m sitting on my mothers bed.
i’m grown now–
not really,
but it feels that way sometime.

i watch her stare at herself in the mirror
with disgust.
“god i wish this tan would go away.
i’m so dark,
i’ve been trying everything to scrub it off.”
i’m taken back.

i’m a child,
standing in the shower.
i take the new loofah my mom got me.
i lather it up with dove body soap,
and i scrub and scrub and scrub.

i scrub my arms and my legs,
my face and my stomach,
everywhere i can reach.
i want to get rid of the darkness.

i would be so much prettier if i had light skin.
why do i have to be brown?
why can’t i have clean skin like the white girls?
my skin is so gross and dirty.
why won’t it come off?
why am i like this?

i have to resist the urge to tell her.
i know it’s not her fault.
and it’s not her mother’s fault.
and it’s not her mother’s mother’s fault either.
i know.

but i can’t help but be angry.
for the girls who scrub their arms in the shower,
for the mothers who look at themselves with disgust,
for the women who can’t feel beautiful in their own skin.