Eyes the color of the eldest of trees,
Hair straight with a light wave of wind,
And skin the color of the sun’s sandy beach,
But she is one made as oil with water
With no mix, just parts in the same glass.

So what then is she; this single person?
Both ingredients call to her rich heart,
Though one more abundant than the other
They speak to her in a tug-o-war.

Pick me they cry in whispers of pride,
Trying to pull her from sturdy ground.
Pick me! See how you are like me
And they point to those features;
Those eyes, that hair, that skin.

Like spilled coffee on white lace
It floods through her to clutch one
How much do I need for it to be me?
Skin not dark enough, life not white enough.

Pick me let out in a fleeing breath,
And the contents stiffen in suspense,
Awaiting a shower of their success,
But the silence grows and it deafens.

These eyes, this hair, this skin
Are a part of one being, therefore,
Two must mix as one in this glass.
No she demands, she is both.