White Sand, White Skin, and African Friends

There was sand beneath
my feet, between my fingers,
slipping down through my hair,
dusting across my face.

She screamed, laughed, 
danced frantically away from
the edge of the sea-salt, 
terrified of the vast unknown.

Afterwards, we sat in the 
breeze and slurped warm
soda, dragging our fingers
through the sand on the 
wooden bench, pretending
we both belonged there; but
I was the only one who burned.

Years later, I stood at the edge
of the eternal sea, watched the
sun set, sliding beneath the water.
I imagined riding a boat, sailing
six thousand miles to the other 
edge, leaping off and finding her
still there, laughing hysterically.

It is always me
and only me
who burns – 
my skin, my friends
my history, my
everything

by Ghanaperu

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