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After 3 years of muteness, I started to reach into myself and write about things, what happened to me and are made emotional blocks in me, but never been able to talk about or solve them. This poem is my second, what I wrote in English, so... please, do not be shy, and help me correct wherever my grammar or structure is not right. Thank you. :)

my names

426445_424053897678037_2134723627_nby Aimee Saig17 Aug 2014

he called me “the black kid”
his hands big like a cradle
he rocked my world with
but don’t ask me
if they were soft or callused
he never touched me
if he could avoid it, he just
eyed me every morning
and night as if I was some foul,
dead meat rotting in his throat
that makes him constantly choked
“the black kid” that’s what he called me

that’s how the neighborhood
knew me “the black kid”
and the other urchins amongst I wished
but could never fit, really
don't know what made me think I might
they were right
they were white
they called me “Bounty”
like the chocolate brown outside
and they filled me with that
bitter void so shiny-white like the snow
they would shred me till I became tini-tiny, so
they could never truly see me,
me, “the black kid” a.k.a “Bounty”

maybe, my mother really
spread her thighs for that man
the black one from Sudan... she never told me
but once, when my origin came up
she made up a confusing story
about a still-born child,
about shame, and slammed doors because of me
she looked into my eyes, called me “her failure”
and with a shriek - denied me
and I spent years looking in the mirrors
only to find her blasted features
on my own face, oh mother... oh my... Blimey!
he has brown skin, too, the man, who
I called father, who raised me, he
who never, ever knew me, only
by that name “the black kid”