You’re the end of a valley
Mama, remember that tears are not enough
to carve your name on my tinted skin, sometimes,
I’m a butterfly flying, dodging away from my ‘Albino’ skin,
till you teach me,
till you catch me between the lines on your palms
and tell me Albinos are beautiful.
I’m a sickle celled victim
with my hopes trampled by the news,
statistics that say
I would soon depart the tunes of your love,
I run, I cry, I call it fate,
till you teach me the media lies,
till you crumple your face into hopelessness
to avoid telling me how you had counted
the rest of my life between your fingers too.
I run into a valley of memories,
I see a grave at the end, yours,
then I cup my hands into faith,
I swear that I’ll hold those mountains,
I’ll be what you had always wanted.
An Albino. Sickle cell. Brave. Great.