My Skin

My masks are falling off,
smashing in pieces on the floor.

The porcelain has been so heavy for so long.

Hand-painted as I wore them,
everyday of my little life.

I try to blame the artists, but I handed them the brushes and picked out the paint.

I always wondered what my skin might look like.

Oreos

Am I a visible minority?

You told me I was.

When I was worth it.

Am I oppressed? I guess so.

Am I criticized? You bet.

Am I black? I don't know.

Am I white? I guess I should be.