Is This Fair?
You pit yourself against me;
not in the way we would both enjoy.
You tell me I taste better
because of the color of my skin.
I told you to leave the lights off.
You ask me where I’m from,
I say from the pits of California
where men and women
drip blood onto your salads.
I am pitting myself against you
because of your alabaster skin.
Because you won’t ever get it.
Because I can never be enough.