people look at their hands
like skin is a summary,
like color can explain
what they refuse to learn.
they read bodies
the way they read headlines,
quick, lazy,
already decided.
they look at me
and see what you have made,
not what my ancestors cried for,
bled for,
died for.
they don’t see the sacrifice buried in my bones,
only the lies and wrongs
history dressed up as “progress.”
all that pain
for a future that promised change
and delivered repetition.
maybe that story is a cover
for how you feel.
maybe it’s easier
to blame the present
than face the truth.
but it’s not real.
it was never real.
they see a tan and invent a threat.
see brown and rewrite the rules.
see Black and clutch their fear
like a family heirloom.
see pale and call it neutral,
call it normal,
call it default.
people shout labels
like shields in a war of comfort:
I’m Hispanic, I’m Black, I’m white, I’m Asian—
but beneath the noise,
nobody asks about the soul
trying to breathe under the weight.
what about I?
what about me?
what about the heartbeat
that survived centuries
of being misunderstood on purpose?
difference isn’t dangerous.
ignorance is.
they push people away,
call them insane,
call them dramatic,
call them too much—
when really,
they’re just afraid
of learning something
that would require change.
no badge means pride
when it’s used like a blade.
no heritage stays holy
when it’s weaponized
against another body.
it was never how we walked.
never how we talked.
it was skin.
it was history.
it was truth
they didn’t want reflected back.
people race to be right
but never slow down
to see the human race
is made of the same fragile miracles:
hearts that break,
lungs that fight for air,
brains that ache with memory,
tongues that still try to speak.
we laugh.
we grieve.
we endure.
we rebuild
with shaking hands
because that’s what being human costs.
so why push us away
when you could stay?
why choose comfort
over conscience?
look at your hands.
look at your skin.
say it honestly:
this is not the whole story.
the body is only the cover.
the art lives underneath.
don’t judge race.
judge heart.
judge what survives.
judge what loves anyway.
we are not labels.
we are not mistakes.
we are not your history’s excuse.
we are human art,
and refusing to see it
doesn’t make us invisible.
it just exposes
who you decided not to become.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 8:44 PM UTC
people look at their hands
like skin is a summary,
like color can explain
what they refuse to learn.
they read bodies
the way they read headlines,
quick, lazy,
already decided.
they look at me
and see what you have made,
not what my ancestors cried for,
bled for,
died for.
they don’t see the sacrifice buried in my bones,
only the lies and wrongs
history dressed up as “progress.”
all that pain
for a future that promised change
and delivered repetition.
maybe that story is a cover
for how you feel.
maybe it’s easier
to blame the present
than face the truth.
but it’s not real.
it was never real.
they see a tan and invent a threat.
see brown and rewrite the rules.
see Black and clutch their fear
like a family heirloom.
see pale and call it neutral,
call it normal,
call it default.
people shout labels
like shields in a war of comfort:
I’m Hispanic, I’m Black, I’m white, I’m Asian—
but beneath the noise,
nobody asks about the soul
trying to breathe under the weight.
what about I?
what about me?
what about the heartbeat
that survived centuries
of being misunderstood on purpose?
difference isn’t dangerous.
ignorance is.
they push people away,
call them insane,
call them dramatic,
call them too much—
when really,
they’re just afraid
of learning something
that would require change.
no badge means pride
when it’s used like a blade.
no heritage stays holy
when it’s weaponized
against another body.
it was never how we walked.
never how we talked.
it was skin.
it was history.
it was truth
they didn’t want reflected back.
people race to be right
but never slow down
to see the human race
is made of the same fragile miracles:
hearts that break,
lungs that fight for air,
brains that ache with memory,
tongues that still try to speak.
we laugh.
we grieve.
we endure.
we rebuild
with shaking hands
because that’s what being human costs.
so why push us away
when you could stay?
why choose comfort
over conscience?
look at your hands.
look at your skin.
say it honestly:
this is not the whole story.
the body is only the cover.
the art lives underneath.
don’t judge race.
judge heart.
judge what survives.
judge what loves anyway.
we are not labels.
we are not mistakes.
we are not your history’s excuse.
we are human art,
and refusing to see it
doesn’t make us invisible.
it just exposes
who you decided not to become.
