She is mahogany,
She blends with the stairs
upon which she cries as the house sleeps,
She sheds her tears like she sheds her blood
As the whip cracks on her back,
She cries when no one else can see
because no one else should see.
She has done no wrong, but she is wronged.
Her temper is as still as the night,
It cannot rise like the sun
or she will be tossed to the ground once again,
Her body against the brown dirt that matches her skin.
She is a mother, an unfortunate lover,
Loved by her children but not those who use her,
Through their pleasure seeking eyes
They cannot see her, but she sees them.
Her eyes are dark, darker than the black sky at night,
Dark like blood, dark like pain and emptiness,
Dark like her skin that lies on the mahogany stairs.