Grime

Not everything I say makes sense.

And not everything I do has a purpose.

But every breath I take and move I make contains a passion like none other.

Your grimy fingers may try to caress my body but you will never touch upon the temple of my being.

I'll take the lies from your forked tongue and reveal you from the dirty snake you are.

I have no pity for a nonexistent soul.

I act upon the ruthlessness that is my feminine anger and unleash my woes upon your ignorant flesh.

Maybe, if I scrub hard enough, I'll scrape away my skin--

For if beauty is only skin deep, why do I need my melanin?

It's only caused me pain and grief that I'd inherited from my beautiful ancestors, and yet I am seen as second-rate and the reason behind the wipipo's wars.

If I could tell my 12-year-old self one thing, I would tell her to embrace every part of her magical being that encompasses and eclipses the stars of her world, and to search for the galaxies of validation within herself.

Find the strength within your knowledge.

Stay Awake.

Fight the good fight. Fight for your lovely, mixed up palette of a skin color, your womanhood, your body, your right to marry the girl next door, and your right to pave your own destiny.

Fight for your right to be a slut, a bitch, and a damn successful one.

Fight for love. And peace.

Even if no one else will--

I love you.

Sincerely,

One Fed Up, Grimy Bitch.