I recoiled as the first blow fell. Then came the onslaught: fists raining down, feet kicking, boys jeering like a mob gone mad.
Taunting, hate-filled eyes challenged me to stop them. But I was helpless and they knew it.
Their vengeance spent, they reluctantly left. The iron grips around my arms fell away and I stumbled to the ground.
He just lied there, broken and bloody. Gingerly I touched my lover’s face. My skin against his—my dark chocolate against his white milk … now changed to red by gaping wounds.
I may be black, but my blood is red too.
Afterthought: I kept the style obscure because it just seemed to suite this piece, but in case some meaning was lost I’m giving an explanation below (if you didn’t get the meaning, let me know in the comments please!)
A girl is forced to watch a gang of racists beat up her lover. She is black, but the part that makes this violence so much worse, is that her lover is white. “My skin against his—my dark chocolate against his white milk…” But his blood is red, and that is the only colour that matters—on the inside they are the same colour.