Do you know me?
Do you know who I am?
Because I don't.
Tell me what you see when you look at me.
I've been called many names.
Bitch, slut, n*gger, lazy, perfectionist
daughter, sister, darling, honey, love.
But who am I? Really, who am I?
Don't look at my skin when you look at me.
Don't look at my hair.
My eyes.
My breasts.
My bum.
Look at me.
Look at my soul.
Look at the colours that dance around me
as I bounce down the street,
as I strut to your door.
Look at the tears I hid behind each beaming smile.
Do you know who I am?
I am darkness.
I am pain.
I am the sunshine waiting to break through the thick clouds of your oppression.
Of your control,
your desire.
Actually, don't tell me what you see.
I don't care.
Why should I?
What would it change?
What would I gain but another question mark looming over my head
while you decide who I should be
without a second thought as to who I can be.
Or who I want to be.
Do you know what I see when I look at me?
Freedom.
From your sick,
sexual,
oppressive,
controlling,
predatory
gaze.