The men enter her chambers. They’re smiling those awful toothy grins they often do when they come to see her. Normally she would not be dressed so grandly, her hair would not be so neat; she’d be sweatin’ out in those fields with her brothers and sisters, picking the white mans cotton for him, her skin marred by sun and whip, her hair filled with twigs and dirt. But they’ve found a better use for her and the other pretty brown sugar skinned girls that populate this particular plantation.
Some white men want a taste of their flesh, their little peckers wondering what it would be like to sink between sweet chocolate thighs and be engulfed by luscious chocolate lips. She watches the men watch her. They’re more animals than men when they’re in her room. She stares at these pathetic excuses; she’s good enough to indulge in but not good enough to stand on equal ground with them. Good enough to sleep with and yet they call her brothers and sisters beasts.
She watches them shed their clothes, knowing she’s expected to do the same. She should feel like a queen in this dress but all it is is another set of shackles that keep her tied down here. The color makes her think of the blood her people have shed, the fabric a sick mockery of the product she and her kin have gathered for the white man. She may eat better than most, she may have a bed to sleep in and a place in the house, but she sure as hell still aint free and these men are here to remind her of that everyday.