She hated the darkness of her skin. She wished she was lighter—prettier. She hated that she was black. She wished to be a different race, a less hated race. A more “exotic” race.
She sat on the bathroom floor with a razor blade twirling around in her hand. She looked at her wrists. Looked at the scabs from previous wounds. Why did she have to be dark? She took the razor blade and cut. She wished she could scrap her darkness away and become light.
Society told her she wasn’t beautiful. Never directly. Always subliminally. The women on the covers of magazines were usually white or light. The leading women in movies and music videos were usually white or light. The women praised in songs were usually white or light.
Light is right.
I like a long-haired, thick red bone.
Beautiful black woman, bet that bitch look better red.
Light skinned, pretty eyes.
She never once heard society embrace a woman of her color and for that, she felt less beautiful.
She watched her blood drip down her wrist. It was funny. No matter what the color of their skin were, they all bleed red. She wanted to feel beautiful. She wanted society to see her as beautiful, but the lighter the skin the beautiful you are.
She looked at her arms. They were all cut up. Each cut represented the times she didn’t feel beautiful—the times society hurt her. Eventually she would move on to another body part. Her legs. Her breasts. Her stomach. Her thighs. Until she was covered with cuts.
She didn’t like the skin she was in. Apparently, neither did society, so they’ll keep cutting her. And she’ll keep letting them.