They want me
They want my skin, dark as chocolate to melt on their tongue
They want to ******* sweetness over and over
Yet they do not want to know the history of my cocoa
Nor of how it got this sweet after years of being labelled "bitter woman"
And when I speak of that history I suddenly become less wanted
Less sweet
I return to the "bitter woman" always complaining they say
So they want me to accept their compliments
Answer when they call me "chocolate queen"
But never fully claim the title "queen"
For my chocolate although sweet is only good for a few moments as though I am an addicts dream and all I am is a fix
They want the story of my cocoa to remain untold
The story of how I was whipped beaten and almost broken
The story of how the sun scorched my bare back and the mud swallowed my tired feet
The story of how despite it all my cocoa still thrived and produced wonderlust fruit

They do not want to hear such a story, yet they lick their lips in anticipation of my fruit
My cocoa still tells its story despite this and there are those waiting with patient ears