Dark. Dusky. Dirty.

Her sister had the lion's share,
Just for her skin, oh so fair.
For her veins not branching to blue—
Her melanin was repulsive to you.
She wished her skin would grow anew,
While she took up the bristles concealed,
In hopes of scrubbing away the soot,
And rinsing away skin so rusted,
To solve all her problems to the root.
Only to face misery raw and unsorted.
Her existence and thoughts eventually mute.