The Color of My Skin
I walk into a room, and the first thing you notice is the color of my skin.
Judging me already as if my color is a sin.
Forming ridiculous thoughts about where I’ve probably been.
Imagining the things that I’ve probably gotten myself in.
She’s brown; more than likely, she is Mexican.
Born on the other side, she had to have snuck in.
There is no way in hell she could ever be an American.
Trying to live in our world, who the hell does she think she is?
I have to try a hundred times harder to be accepted.
Work a hundred times harder for you to trust my intentions.
Study a hundred times more so you can have faith in my intelligence.
Show my proof of birth just to prove I’m a true Texan.
Speak only in English, so you never feel like I’m offending.
Erase my whole heritage so I won’t come off as threatening.
Only to realize it doesn’t matter what I do to fit in.
Because the reality of it all is...
You will always only see the color of my skin.
