Yes, she is not who you think her to be
Her head holds more than just shiny curls she unwraps at dawn
When no one can see her.
It is filled with poems, sonnets thoughts never found on paper
More than the dark skin that filled many with discontent
But a reflection of her ancestors
It is her past.
Her large lips hold triumph, and words of love for those who've Hurt. Burnt. Scorned her with their own.
Her eyes are more than just the brown that turns no heads.
But contain fire, a care that can keep any willing man warm
Her clothes on her back are more than just traditional patterns but are the feelings that she wears.
She is the same
But she was different from anything you had ever known
She is not who you think her to be
I am not who I am.
