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The entitlement to our existence.
There is no room to breath,
the very oxygen in this room,
they only see how to monetize it,
how to groom it
for consumption,
irrespective of its destruction,
no concern for its disruption.

The entitlement to our air.
How can I reform that which seeks to destroy me?
That seeks to own me?
To own my wares,
shows no care,
demonstrates no sympathy for my racial
and colonial history.
No empathy to put himself in my shoes,
to see the trauma of the generational injuries
wrought by his ancestors.

The entitlement to our space.
Reform sounds nice,
but more than thrice,
I've been told revolution is the only way
to recover what's been stolen from us.
Reform is their message, palatable, told to us
so that they can keep their wealth, money, and resources.

The entitlement to our bodies.
They sold to us a lie
they would work with us
And we believed it because we wanted
to believe in their redemption.
Redemption is the lie reform embraces.
Revolution is the only way to break out of the cages
they set for us.
At its heart, it is counter to their goals,
and so it is labeled as dangerous,
increasing their fear of us.

With revolution they will be entitled no more.
I need you to understand my silence
not my eloquent words of wisdom
not my mountain of intellect
not my impactful insights on the world
not my ability to introspect.
I know not of these things.

I need you to understand my existence
what exists in me through my experience
carrying loved ones
unfaded
persistent
optimistic
consistent
hope.
I am convinced
that we are more concerned
with projecting onto someone
rather than protecting someone.

More concerned
with erecting someone
onto a pedestal
that will crumble,
therefore erasing someone
because we were mistaking someone
to fill a hole that can only be filled
once we stop chasing someone
when we stop daydreaming someone,
will.
What is the shape of your Love?
Where are its boundaries?
Where does the space of your Love
occupy the memories
the edges
the points of tension
enmeshed in the masterpiece
of you?

— The End —