I don’t like the social coloring of your skin.  I don’t like the way that it makes me feel.  Why are you not like me?

I don’t like your hair.  I don’t know what I would do with it.  I can’t put my finger on it.  Can I touch it?

I don’t like your eyes; the way that you are looking, the way that you look scares me.  What do you see with those things?

I don’t like your nose, too big, too small, too broad, too thin.  I could breathe easier if it didn’t look like that.  Would you pinch your nose?

I don’t like your mouth; the shape is problematic.  Your voice is troubling.  I don’t like it when you talk.  Can you keep it down?

If I am honest, I just don’t like you because you don’t look like me.  When I look at you, I feel that you are a work in progress or that some one messed up big time and that I am the finished product.  I could blame it on your features but your body has nothing to do with it.

I don’t like you because you are not me.  I just blame race for my god-like aspirations.  I really want you to be made in my image.