666 —
The recipe for this melanin.
So why do these scriptures call me a beast?
Yet I'm told God is love, He is just—
But still, He excludes my skin
From His so-called creation.
Why is the blood of the lamb,
That had to be shed, divine?
Yet the one that drips from my womb—
The very source of life—
Is called impure?
They came.
They saw.
Fleeing from their cold, forgotten islands.
They had never seen the sun,
Never felt its warmth.
They saw the farmer speaking abundance into the earth—
And screamed, "Idolising!"
They saw our power
And they trembled.
Realized we were G
ods
On a land where gods had never truly existed.
And in their chests, where hearts should’ve stood,
There was nothing but evil.
Greed.
Hunger.
The need for power.
They realized poverty would no longer chain them—
As long as we wore the shackles in their place.
The price of their liberation
Was our bondage.
They told us being naked was primitive.
Sold us modesty—
So we could learn to resent our own skin.
Labeled us:
Black.
Brown.
Coloured.
But never cared to know our names.
Only came armed—
Ready to exploit us.
Burned us.
Skinned us.
Sold us salvation that would never come.
Left our souls, hearts, and spirits undone.
So is that why their scriptures call me a beast?
Told me I was broken—born a sin?
Told me I wasn’t enough,
Then cut me at the knees?
Forced into submission,
Using fear,
Using terror—
They showed me a god
Whose skin and values
Were nothing but foreign to me.
Cut the crown from my head
That came naturally.
Taught us the standard was us faded.
Told me pride was sin,
But obedience was holy.
Taught us to starve while we wait for heaven—
As they built their pearly gates
On our land.
Told us to pray with our eyes closed
So we’d never see
What was stolen.
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