My skin, Like the seasons, it changes color. In the winter, my skin is an unsaturated, pale brown With spots that look darker than the other. In the summer, my skin radiates deep golden hues, It illuminates and gently toasts I am a reflection of the sun. My pigment is rooted from my ancestors, Who desperately reproduced to rid of their dark complexion Who wanted to be deemed light enough To never experience hatred, racism, and social oppression The color of my skin is blend of two immigrant parents With deep Mexican roots Who were fortunate enough to pass and look like the others I was always told I’d have to worry about nothing But I do worry because my light brown skin Is now an aesthetic. I never knew women wanted my complexion I never knew to be caramel-toned was the new “thing” You want my skin color, But don’t want the experience Don’t want the culture Don’t want the backlash of being a person of color Before you douse yourself in deep medium to dark bronzer Before you cook your skin under the U.V lights Before you sit outside for hours and hours I want to remind you that my skin color represents the past, present, and future. My skin color has a history My skin color has experienced pain It's not a trend It's not supposed to look orange or define beauty My skin color is not your aesthetic.
Dianira Piceno is a senior English major at SOU who takes pride in writing poetry.
Main Squeeze Literary Journal 