There is
the bitter taste of the last cigarette
on the roof of my mouth,
a sourness on my tongue
and i try to remember the last time i felt like this.
or rather…
the last time I DIDN’T.
seems like as time goes on, every day becomes a struggle,
and some days more than others.
I want everyone to be my friend,
but i wonder where this inferiority complex comes from?
it paralyzes me and i do not want to speak.
meeting people, seeing my ideas put into words
by other lips and others’ gestures,
and yes I agree,
but god **** you make me so tired.
no, i do not need your hugs,
and no i do not need your validation.
and hell no i do not need your apathetic agreement
because like hell you would understand,
like hell you would know that
you can’t bleach this brown skin of
all the slurs and all the stigma,
that you can’t flat iron out the
ethnic tangles of my afro-something hair,
that you can’t even guess,
cause even i don’t know,
even we don’t know,
if i’m black or native or forcibly half white,
if i’m 10% this or 50% that,
like I have to be broken down
into numbers and percentages
cause I just can’t be whole again,
cause we just can’t be whole again.
They took everything,
they came and took everything
God ****
and yes God ****** us,
your ****** God ****** us,
you came and you traded
our generosity, our good faith, our sustenance,
you took all of that
and gave us biblical ******** about a God,
some overbearing, vengeful Lord
that didn’t even love you,
oh God, and we were the savages?
You came and you stripped us naked,
took off layer after layer of dignity and prosperity,
we gave you firm hugs of solidarity,
and you groped our ******* like they were worthless,
we gave you kisses of peace,
and you rammed your tongues down our throats,
demanding we choked into silence,
and we were supposed to thank you.
You came and you ***** our land,
our mothers, sisters, and daughters
and we were supposed to be compliant.
we were supposed to be quiet,
and we were supposed to be content,
happy to fill our wombs
with children who would later struggle
with the realization that the reason the color of their skin
was neither yours nor mine,
that it was neither milky white nor toasted earth,
was because my people had been ****** by yours,
figuratively, literally but most significantly, forcibly
generation after generation,
subjugation after subjugation
for 400 ******* years.
And here I am.
400 years later and I don’t know who I am.
They say I could be Chicana,
or Mexicana,
I could be Mexico Americana,
I could be Latina,
or even, god-forbid,
Hispana.
I could be but what does that even mean?
what does Mexican mean?
a land where the majority of the people
descend from the great people of indigenous America,
or the great people of Africana roots,
or these chaotically beautiful blends
that result in the sweetest of dark coffee- soft caramel of spectrums,
still say “indio" like an insult,
still say ***** like an insult,
still say “prieto" like an insult.
still say, “baby girl, get out the sun,
what you tryin to get darker for?"
still say, “hell no we ain’t african!"
like that would be a bad thing.
and god **** it i am ******* tired.