after Ross Gay 

 

Mine is indecisive skin: 

somewhere in between yellow 

and off white, 

mottled with red at some times,  

mottled with scars at all times. 

Yellow enough that when mono 

ravaged through sixth grade 

with symptoms listed as yellow 

discoloration of the skin 

a kid pointed at me and asked 

like that?  of it.

I do not write it beautiful 

the way Rachel Rostad does: 

“[my skin] was pacific sunset, 

almond milk, a porcelain cup.”  

I prefer to indulge in the comfort 

of sweaters and long pants and hair 

framing my cheeks, hiding 

what my eyes my hair my name 

give away. Joseph loved me 

for my eyes my hair my name not 

my skin said 

I don’t like your skin tone,  

and I took this criticism as cruel and probably 

fell a little bit out of love with him that night, 

with his Asian anime schoolgirl fetish 

with his white boy privilege 

but do you really think I’m talking to you about my skin?