The Observer

I kneel, facing the window, on mama's old couch.
The yellow flowers are faded from the sun
and worn from countless children bouncing, sitting, jumping, figeting.
The springs squeak in a farmiliar way as I pull the gossamer curtains over my head.
They are cool and whispy on the back of my neck like water from the creek.

I watch the boys and girls playing in the street.
Their skin reflects the afternoon sun, creamy and unblemished. Mine is dark, etched with cuts and stamped with bruises from sleeping on the floor and fighting with my brothers.
The have sleek blond hair. Mine is black and knotted into course braids by mama's callused fingers.
Nikki says that they get play outside because their skin shines like the moon. I don't mind-I always liked chocolcate better anyways.





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