As the mirror taunts me

With kinked brown locks

And weary hazel eyes

That forever scrutinize,

Pale skin glares back,

Blinding in the morning rays.

“Paper White”

I used to call it,

But that’s an exaggeration.

More like “Peaches n’ Cream”

Though the fruit is marred

With blemishes and freckles…

I’ll just claim it’s organic.

But in that ghostly appearance

Rests a history…

A history just begging to be told,

Of those whose traits I,

And my children.

And my children’s children

Will showcase to the end of our line.

Did those founders crawl from the bottom

On their hands and knees

Up that long, steep staircase,

Littered with the shattered glass shards

Of strife wrought revolution,

Their blood mixing with the browning stains

Of those that preceded them?

Or did they take the smooth path,

Walking barefoot in their privilege

Boldly, upon the backs of those born

With a darker complexion

Or ostracized beliefs,

Refusing to look down at the sound

Of pained screams

And broken cries for compassion?

How much pride can be shown

In that empathetic gaze

When the culture that we sail

Is built upon an ocean of tears

Of those we oppressed

In our greedy ambition?

I gaze back

At that looking-glass face,

All snowy with luck

The occasional patch of ground showing

And all I can think

Is that there is no sense

In all this odious conflict

When we all bleed the same

Shade of crimson.