I am black.

Correction, my skin is black.

Another correction, my skin is actually dark brown but in the eyes of society, it’s black.

Black like the tar that’s laid out on the concrete of the streets.

Black like the night sky when there aren’t any stars out.

Black like the bitterness of racists who hate the color of my skin.

Bitterness that has no justifiable reason for existing.

I don’t know about you, but being black is great but at the same time it’s not.

I’m pretty sure you know the saying “Black don’t crack.”

Well, I’m here to tell you that it actually does.

Black cracks like lips when they get too dry.

Like glass when it gets shattered.

Like a soul when life is drained from it.

You see, the soul of a person with black skin is constantly drained mentally.

Drained by the subtle actions of hate by the ignorant.

Ignorant people who are so close-minded that they trample over anything different from them.

If the language is different, they trample.

If the mindset is different, they trample.

Most importantly, if the skin color is different, they trample.

They don’t care about how much black people did for this country.

They don’t care about the people who picked cotton and put money in their pockets.

They don’t care about the people who watched their children just to have their black children disrespected.

They don’t care about the people who worked themselves to death just to be treated as equals.

I’m not worried though.

Because one day they’ll realize that they need us.

They’ll realize that they need people with black skin.