Here I am, once again
Chains that shackle my feet
To an ideal,
To a model,
A model with such small features,
such crimson cheeks,
Such a snow complexion,
Slavery has ended,
Why has oppression not ceased?
Why I ask? Why?
Am I not beautiful?
Are my features so repulsive?
Is it heavy lidded eyes,
Or my sculpted lips,
Or my sun-scorched skin?
I make a stand
Upon firm ground
Releasing these chains
I declare myself beautiful
Not by their standards,
But by mine.