My skin,
the wrong colour.
My words,
the wrong language.

Sometimes.

Ain’t no baba,
smoke curling
from her
thin lips,
smile as wide
as those
childbearing hips.

Sometimes.

Hair covered,
I still see
your looks,
your eyes,
your pocket
book smiles.

Being Romani
Doesn’t
make
Me
Blind.

Sometimes.

My skin,
the wrong colour.
My eyes,
full of tears.

Sometimes.

I never said I
was perfect.
I never said I
was a soul,
silent, sleeping.

I never said.

Sometimes, I’m scared.

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