A self portrait.
Silver fingertips, smudged paper.
Deep dark eyes complement
Charcoal brows.
At a carnival, I hand over $5
And the white man draws me.
No smudges, no black.
A thin waist, a clean face.
Portrait and caricature
Both hang side by side.
I pick one as my mirror.
the portrait falls and shatters.
the artist is my creator.
Digs his pencil into my skin.
Tears it, erases it, mends it however he wants.
And when the led breaks
I apologize for being too hard to draw.
And I keep apologizing
For the paint that he spilled.
For the canvases HE lost.
For the damnation HE created on this planet
For the girl who he passed his guilt down to,
the same girl that HE drew.
I’m sorry.
I’ll fix it.
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