they tell us- that this isn’t our fault but is still our weight to shoulder.

it’s hard.

mightily so-

to look into a mirror that fills itself out in the image of a person we become not familiar with. 

it becomes hard to say to ourselves- that we need help and to be held

and that the language to express such was never given to my tongue. 

i lost to urges i couldn’t speak against

and let them take me where white men dance on ruins, and humiliation. 

the ground beneath our feet is cracked

torn earth. 

beds  

made from dirt, her sisters, and the infinite lay us down

call us out in a way of holding.

they tell us-

that this isn’t our fault

but is still our weight to shoulder.

the way it was for the ancestors who broke backs in fields for profit.

and as we sleep uneasily 

we dream

of one day having skin gentle enough for the lightest kiss. 

we dream that we may one day accept ourselves as easily as those lies in our guts.

that we may one day see in mirrors 

what others see in our hearts.

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