You say you don’t want to be with a black girl like me who stands 5 ft. 1 (no, I lied) 4 ft. 11. What is it that you don’t like? Is it my hair? My kinky, curly matted strands of hair. It’s unfamiliar to you, isn’t it? You don’t see this kind of beauty on the cover of Cosmo, People, or Seventeen magazine. Or is it my skin? It’s my skin, isn’t it? My rich cocoa skin. Well, if you ask a young child what the color of my skin is, he or she will say brown—not black. My skin resembles cafe mocha which the Italians call it mochaccino, bellissimo—with a dash of sweetness and some cinnamon flavor. Don’t downplay what you said. You said you’re not into black girls. Am I supposed to feel torn because of your ignorance? The color of my skin is part of me, it’s my genetic-makeup, it’s my blue-print. It’s permanent, it can not be altered and will not be changed. I am not trying bleach for you.

I am also human. A human being that inhabits this lovely/ugly fallen world. I see more ugly than lovely and I wish it not-be-so-ugly. The image of us walking hand in hand at a local bar gets you icy cold/stony eyed. Sad. Pathetic, really. Oh, it would be so tragic! You claim it wouldn’t be your picture-perfect fantasy. Fantasies are saturated, nonsensical, absurd, and jaded. I used to fantasize about riding on a horse with my hands tightly around Chris Pine’s waist as we ride on a treacherous trail while escaping wild dragons. And after the conquest, we make love in a nearby bush. And you know what? That won’t happen.

You say interracial relationship is—”great, I guess… actually “I don’t know.” You’re wishy-washy, you’re close minded. If you can’t still look past the color of my skin then you don’t really see me. If you truly see the parts of me, you would be saying something entirely different. I’m loyal. I’m quirky. I’m funny. I will love you until it hurts. And I want someone that will love me the same. And you are not the one.

I want that special guy to love every part of me, my rich cocoa skin, my kinky/curly matted strands of hair, my loyalty, my quirkiness, my humor. I want a guy that will love me whole. I want him to ask me the craziest question: “You want the moon?” And I’ll say, “yes” with gumption because it’s crazy and I’m crazy about him. He will then throw a loose around it and pull it down. He will then break it apart. He gives me one half and he takes the other. We swallow it and after we swallow the moon, it will dissolve and the moonbeams will shoot out of our fingers, toes, and the ends of our hair. The moonbeams inside will be so bright that it will latch on to anything it touches. People will smile when they see us because it’s so bright. It’ll be love that keep us shining. That’s the kind of love-ly I want to see, obtain, and feel in this world…without you in it.