Like The Very Hungry Caterpillar,
I consume inconsistencies like leaves,
spoon-fed fabrications of stereotypes and tradition,
inching towards an internal civil war sparked by skin color.
Fattened, I vomit these fibs in transparent threads,
sacrificing culture for privilege,
yellow skin metamorphosing to a white shell.
Confined in a cage of temporary whiteness,
I imprison myself to supplement my new skin,
cocooned identity cushioned by self-deprecating jokes.
A stranger in the mirror meets my slitted eyes
and my soul flutters with desire,
yearning for a silky-smooth solution to free myself
from this cocoon of race.
