Hair like rivers flowing, dark silk that won’t lie flat, rebellion against scorching fire.
Skin the shade of sun-baked clay, the color of deserts with orchard at harvest undertones.
A nose carved like a ridge of stone, molded against the wind – unmoved, rough, unsoftened.
Eyes as deep as olives at harvest: bitter and dark, swirls of shadow and rich oil.
I was taught early on by those who looked like me that smoothness was beauty: straight lines, pale palettes, softened crests.
Sanded-down features to fit an unforgiving frame.
But I will not be beautiful by subtraction. My beauty is abundant; it is rich.
I am a mess of curl, depth, and substance, born of earth and ancient soil. My features are mutiny, a flashback of strength.
Every strand I tame is a story undone.
Every canvas I redraw is a sacrifice unmade.
Every root that persists, every paint that melts off, is a revolution.
My face is not a mask worn for uniformity. My features are geography, history, proof of my lineage.
