I was born from war.
Not just one, but many.
Bloodlines braided in battle,
Mohawk steel, Black iron,
warriors who stood their ground
and those who had it ripped from beneath them.
Survivors. Rebels. Ghosts.
Their voices live in my bones.
I should have been raised to burn,
to sharpen my edges and let nothing in.
Hate was carved into my inheritance,
left in the ashes of broken treaties,
buried in the fields where my ancestors bled,
spat in the faces of those who dared to stand tall.
My grandmother still holds the echoes,
reflected in her eyes,
She tells me  not to trust,
tells me history does not forget.
And she is not wrong.
But history also does not forgive.
And I—
I am caught between the teeth of it,
too much of everything,
not enough of anything,
a contradiction that no one wants to claim.
They say things in front of me they wouldn’t dare
if my skin were darker,
if my hair curled tighter,
if my cheekbones cut sharper,
if my blood wasn’t always on trial.
Too red to be Black.
Too Black to be red.
Too much. Never enough.
Hate should be my birthright.
A blade I was meant to wield,
a fire I was meant to stoke,
but I was born reaching,
grasping for something heavier than rage,
something softer than war.
Because hate is easy.
And I have never been given the luxury of ease.
I was meant to inherit fire.
Instead, I choose to walk through it.