Her skin,

like hot melted chocalate,

luscious velvety sheet of silk,

the minerals of the raw, untouched dirt,

brown sugar in my sweet pie.

Such skin should be the radiance for all to see,

but they rather sit her in the back of the bus,

but they would rather tear her apart,

but they rather treat her as if she was transparent.

A mind set of being her own,

of being equally yoked,

of being in another skin.

She wanted to be in another skin.

Why couldn't she be another skin?

Skin of vanilla frosting of a wedding cake,

Genunie virgin soy milk,

the chaste blanket of the crisp, crystal snow.

Dreams of being on the other side of the fence.

Wishes of being inside to rest instead of outside to harvest the master's ingathering.

Desire to be treated like the human being she really is.

Then reality weighs itself upon her fraglie, beaten back,

reality of the skin she is deeply in.