On the first day of school

she wore little red shoes
with
red ribbons
in her hair
like streaks of blood

and

a bright smile on her face.

She came back to me
with tears in her eyes
and
angry red marks
against her brown skin
that matched

her muddy red shoes
and shredded red ribbons.

How come my skin is not white, Mommy?

On the second week of school

she wore a dark purple dress
with
purple butterfly clips
in her hair
that flitted nervously

and
a smile on her face.

AAAAAAAHHHHH!

She came back to me
with screams
e c h o i n g  the hallways
and
little purple spots
against her brown skin

that matched

her torn purple dress
and broken purple hairclips.

Why can’t I be white like them, Mommy?

On the third week of school

she wore a white headband
with
white nail polish
painted on
her little nails

and a weak smile
on her tired face.

She came back to me
with her eye swollen shut like a toxic white bee had stung her
and
her arm
in a white cast
against her brown skin

that matched

her dirty white headband
and flaky white fingernails

Mommy, I wish I was white like the other kids.

On the seventh week of school

she wore a long sleeved shirt

that covered her brown arms
with long pants
that covered her brown legs

and no smile

on her face.

Her clothes screamed,
Please don’t hurt me.
Please.
Please.
Please.

She came back to me
with
her head down

and

eyes completely
unfocused.

She would not, could not, look at me.

On the ninth week of school

she wore a black dress
with
black earrings
and
a blank look on her face.

Her silence
was a cry for help.

I should have known.

That day,

she didn’t come home to me.

I waited.

And waited.
 
And waited.

But she never came home.

One morning,
One dark, omnious morning

She came home to me.

in a black trash bag

like

her little black dress

and with a note attached to her cold brown body:

This is what happens when you give birth to abominations.