The colour of my skin is the tale of this spin. Black or white, brown or yellow it doesn’t really matter until it becomes patchy. I like the colour of my skin, it is what it is but it isn’t anymore. It’s brown that’s all, nothing to shout about or go to town. But now, after so long of being brown, a bit of white came into sight. I’m not vain you know and I’m not in pain, so the colour of my skin shouldn’t cause a din. But my skin is changing, it’s not what it was. It’s aging, its wrinkling, the spores are open more. An odd age spot here and there, a mark that shouldn’t be there. A mark I try to hide with my hair. There’s only one for now. There maybe more later, that can’t be covered with hair. Or maybe even this one will go.