My dark skin


is made of


cells.


Not coal.
So I am no different from you,


my Master.



My blood

is not purple.


It is red.
If you would like proof,

ask your whip.
It has seen my bright red blood,
the color of poison berries

course from my deep gashes

with its own eyes.

So I am no different.



My intelligence

is just as good as yours.
It was just never discovered,


my Sir.

Though I never learned

to read and write,


I learned

the ways to survive

sweltering days without


sweet water.


I learned,

to watch my loved ones die


before my eyes
from the tranquil strike of

disease, and guns.

I am no different.



My soul,

is withered away,


gone,
like the unpicked fruits,


you beat me

for leaving on the bushes.
So we are no different, my Master.