Skin.

We’re all the same. A mediocre prototype of a species. Just like any other. Regardless of how they choose to differentiate us in the false belief that we are diverse. Regardless of the names they call us.

“Nigger”
“White Trash”
“Kike”
“Camel Jockey”
“Homo”

Skin. That’s what it all comes down to.

A thin membrane. An illusion that we are all different.

Underneath our skin, our beating hearts are identical.

The blood pumping through our veins is indistinguishable in its organic constitution, color and viscosity.

We are all identical clones, duped into believing we are somehow special.

And only when we are at our most vulnerable does our bland uniformity shine in its beautiful mediocrity.

Our bodies quiver the same when we make love.

A baby emerging from her mama’s womb steals her daddy’s breath regardless if she comes out wearing a pink, yellow or brown skin.

You see, pain has no skin color. Humiliation does not live in a specific country. Hunger does not believe in a deity. Happiness has no ethnic background. Death does not have a sexual orientation. And breathing has no socioeconomic class.

Get out of your skin. Only then will you be somewhat special.

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