The Gashes of Our Skin


Do you remember the screams of terror and shock that spilled from our quivering lips? Do you remember the cries of agony that tore through the air, that surrounded us? Do you remember the bright red ichor that burned dark backs from the bellicose sun? Even when we finally had a chance to step out of the sun, the gashes bided clear on our skin. Do you remember the violence we resisted from the sun, whether using silence or not? But why? Why did the sun treat us with such shame? We rose with our men and women, with equality wavering, yet we were still pushed down by the sun. But why? Why did the sun treat us with such revile? We rose again, though many of our men went back down, we rose. No remorse in our bright red blood and no penitence. But still-why! Why did the sun treat us with such revulsion? Out of all our protests and our marches, we were still treated as lowest of the food chain, the bottom feeders, the unintelligent monkeys. Yet we still rose with our men and women, our black brothers and sisters, to show our absolute capabilities! It was not only the ilk of our demeanor but the acceptance of the color of our skin that got us through the sun, and even then… the gashes still bided clear on our skin.

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