Before we take on our foot,
we are treated like cotton rags
a rattle in one hand, and a bottle in the other,
yet we **** up our salivating tongue
using our tiny limbs and pebble-sized fingers,
we are shown as dolls in museums
dolls who collapse, yet their struggle
is shown as lightweight and fed to the vultures,
—
Our ankles press against the sand grains
under the sweltering of the sun
and the rising of the moon,
we rise from our berths undead
to haunt our freedom and rights given in books,
—
I start the Mandela effect in 1800’s
manufacturing slaves as robots,
still our mascara hides underneath
and our stick is glued to our hand,
a hand of slavery.