My brown hands

I wish my hands were brown.
That way, you couldn't see the things
they did in the night--
their creations sculpted and molded by me,
anonymously.
But when I wanted you to notice,
the turquoise decorations would catch your eye
and you would hold your stare
for a few good seconds,
then go on with your thoughts of glee.

If they were brown,
you wouldn't take a second glance.
The double-take would be a mistake,
and you would look back to see nothing.
Instead of confusion, it would be more of
an optical illusion.
You may think you saw a glimmer,
but, trust me, the shimmer was just my brown skin.