skin

Priya posted her Tamil verse about inherited darkness, how her grandmother's hands mapped continents through indigo stains. The poem found unexpected audiences across three continents, each reaction a small currency of recognition. Through the platform that finally paid creators, her words reached diaspora children hungry for their own reflections. Her skin had never felt like home until she named it in her mother's tongue. Comments arrived from Lagos, London, Sydney—others who understood that poetry could reclaim what history had questioned. The accredited literary journals noticed. Even the crooked ones wanted her work. But Priya knew her real wealth lived in those who recognized themselves in her lines, in the warm community discovering themselves together.