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Drunk on honey and milk.
In this dim lit room,
We lay under thin sheets that cling to our bodies with sweat.
The air hangs heavy here,
And it smells of you and I.

We whisper in hushed tones,
We giggle,
We kiss.
Nothing has ever felt as good as this.

Drunk on every touch of skin.
Drunk on every word of sin.
We melt into each other.
We melt into another.

This is what we live for.
This is the moment we die for.

Suddenly,
The rest of the world melts away.
It’s just us two.
You look into me,
And I look into you.

Our hearts dance to their new found rhythm.
Our lungs share the same breath of air,
And with our final sigh.
Our mouths say, “Fulfilled”--
And then we die.
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.

I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.

When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.

I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.

I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
AB(AB)-CD(CD)-EF(EF)-GG.
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.

I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.

I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.

I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.

I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.

Rise,
Stand,
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.

Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.

We are poetry.
We will save the world.

You are poetry.
You can change the world.

I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!

And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
    
I'll be free.
Yes, I'm hurting.

Yes, It hurts.

You took my sadness and carved a knife.
You took my sorrow and made a blade.
Pushing it into my chest,
I watched you as you plunged it in.
Breaking bones along the way.

As you twisted it deeper;
You smiled.
That beautiful smile,
How could I hate you?
You're everything.

You took my happiness and created life.
You took my laughter and designed a future.
All while the knife was still there,
And you looked at me.
With those beautiful eyes.
How could I hate you?
You're everything.

I bled red love for you,
Yet, this wound still stings.
I bled purple jealousy too.
Yet, you do these things.
I bled yellow hope for you.
Yet, the pain grows.
I bled pink passion too.
Yet, my feelings you dispose.

As you pull the knife out,
Satisfied with your workmanship,
The blade is covered in blood.

You laugh, amused even,
It's your favorite color.

I bleed orange for you.
Just to please you one last time.
Who am I?
I must be black because my absent father won’t come back.
I am eccentric. I am authentic.
I am something you would never forget to mention.
I am a Black woman.

Who do you want me to be?
I must be Asian because with eyes like these I can solve any equation.
I am intelligent. I am pure elegance.
I am delicate.
I am an Asian woman.

Who do you think I am?
I must be Hispanic because my last name simply states it.
I am diligent. I am militant.
I am an immigrant.
I am a Hispanic woman.

Who should I be?
I may be white by culture, but not by sight.
I am privileged. I am a perfect image.
I have no limits.
I am a White woman.

On paper, the box I checked says Asian,
But sometimes I forget.
What if my race isn't solo, or singular?
It’s a duet—or even a quartet.
My race is tricolor—sometimes invisible.
My race isn't inside, and no, it's not physical.

What if my race is the rushing water of the Mississippi river?
The river just flows and flows—
Runs wherever it may go,
But some are quiet as they trickle in;
Drop by drop a new river begins,
As the water mixes, roaring free.
If you want to label my race, fine, label me.
Label my hair, my customs, or my speech.
Race is just a rumor that mankind decided to teach.

I wish I could forget that I have a race,
That the color is still staining my face.
I'm tired of the separation,
The segregation, the humiliation,
The exhaustion of having a race.
Why label the color on my skin?
Why not embrace the person that I hold within?


*R.A.C.E. stands for Reclassify All Children Equally.

— The End —