Freckles refrain from painting my protruding cheeks.
For my skin is not rosy and fair.
A nod of my chin does not tousle my hair.
My eyes serve as no canvas for teals or greens.
They only mirror the depths of your heart's deepest ravines.
Nose, lips, chin.

None of mine particularly thin.

Nonetheless, politely they sit refusing to apologize for imaginary sin.

Others still throw back their heads guffawing without discretion at my ethnic conception.

Yet towards the sun my golden arms do raise, praising and grateful for dark regalia as my complexion.