Ghosts are walking today.
Last night, misty rain fell upon the town.
On top of already soaking wet yellow leaves
that was plastered flat layer by layer-
like a yellow brick road. I walked on-
after work because biking was not an option-
in the wet air upon the wet road.
Where the road shone slick black,
Under the orange streetlight-
beneath the fading twilight, into the night.

Ghosts are marching today.
They pushed and shoved between the thin veil,
in forms of wind shrouded with orange decaying leaves.
They left dust trails, sidewalk cyclones, and-
Played mischief upon innocent walkers.
They crowded around and laid in wait,
until in groups they swamped and swayed.
As they passed by the disarrays,
with their fuzzy hats, thick coats and flying scarves,
they clutched their coat, just a little bit tighter-
and that’s enough I’m sure, to make deads smile.

Ghosts are parading today.
There was a halo behind the blanketing grey clouds-
that allowed a trickle of lights like diamonds fell into my eyes
and just for a moment in the corner of my eyes I saw:
a long crowd reflected by the golden light,
parading down the street, not caring for passing cars.
They carried a banner high up to the sky
and I squinted my eyes for a better look,
twisted my head back to catch another glimpse,
but with a blink of eyes, they were gone-
like the misty rain that fell last night.

Having thin wrists
Ever so feminine,
sharp as knives,
slim as a needle.

I eat and eat and eat
But no fat ever gets stuck
on my thin wrists.
They stay thin in defiance.

A boy asked another boy
If he could break my thin wrists
He looks at it rationally-coldly.
It would just take a snap.

But my wrists made of bones
Composed of calcium,
Same component
As that boy’s wrist

To think, to phantom, to assume,
it would break so easily.
Takes my breath away
as I look at my thin wrists.

Sun
Rains down.
On skin: black, white, yellow, and brown.
And all skins burn
Under the natural UV light.

Skin
Is something that is not so profound.
It exists in triangular lines of cells that are bound.
Mending and bending with tears and scars,
Over the muscles, tissues, and blood vessels alike.

Skin
Is something that is on the surface; mind you.
They tell you from the start that it’s the inside that counts,
With glitters and flowers and sticker stars,
That you are perfect no matter who you are.

Skin
Is the first thing pre-schoolers recognized.
One boy bluntly points out that this girl is
Dark and *****, different from the rest.
I grab the finger away from her eyes.

Skin
Is the first thing that teenagers find to name.
They call you ******, chinks, and a Terrorist.
They dress as you for Halloween in “good” jeers,
Never to understand the hurt behind and within.

Skin
Is the first thing that adults ask about.
They assume you are Chinese, Japanese, Aboriginal, Afri-
Firmly I interrupt to explain about ethnicity and nationality,
But they don’t care about who you are.

Skin
Is the first thing couples try to match.
Because people stare when black and white are holding hands.
Even I am guilty of such and curiously wish to ask,
How did they meet, fall in love and come about?

Skin
Is the first gossip in town.
It fills the news outlet with riots and protests,
With each claiming their right but backlash after backlash,
Just washes down the black mirror to static white.

Skin
Is the first thing I find myself noticing now.
In a fantastical resort in front of Dominican beach.
White privilege enjoys an all-around buffet while
Dark-toned staff work around the clock.

Knee deep in the surface skin.
People bury themselves in it and live.
But even insects and animals shed their skin.
So, why so much emphasis on the
Skin.

I ain’t saying that being White makes you racist or rich.
I ain’t saying that being a coloured minority makes you a victim.
It’s just something I have noticed;
A problem so thin but keen in everyday
Life.

Wishing
For equity, not equality
The needs exist. After all,  
Bleach skin with white sunscreen
Is always guaranteed.

compelling law shall compel
crimes against humanity to cease
but those crimes i shall not list
continue to brew in the mist

hey
i'm sorry
i really don't do romance
i'm so tired of listening to
same ole story just in
different variation and tone
but they are playing the same chorus
ya get what i mean right?
why do romance
when you are one?
someone answer my question
why is there so many
poems, stories, songs
about romance they have fallen into
but never romance they are themselves?
and in the end regretting
the love they were in
but love is you and me
no give and take i don't see
just don't beat each other for it
no need to steal it, you simply can't
it's there when i am there
and not when i am not