You breathe words down my neck,
that there's no gold found on me,
that instead of gold my fingers leave dirt behind,
that my tangled hair reminds you of weeds in the garden,
that my legs are filled with bumps and scars,
that my stomach protrudes too far,
that my thighs are too robust,
that hair on my skin is only the devils invention.
The brown skin you press against,
is far from the vibrant soft metal of gold,
you'd remind me time and time again,
and I'm lucky that there's a fool looking for me.
