i won’t make history,

i know.

i’ll become dust

and then just be blown away

by a feisty wind.

to a forgotten land.

if you stomp on me,

it won’t be because

i scare, or bother you.

you know I’m timid,

maybe even a wimp at times.

you know you can spit in my face

and i’ll just lower my gaze.

when i walk,

i look at the ground

for fear of showing off my only beauty,

my hazel eyes

which still retain the wonder

of infancy.

if at least I had ebony skin

i’d have something

to fight for,

something to write about.

i’d need to stop my ancestors,

from rioting in their graves.

if I was poor,

there’d be a whole story

waiting for my blunt pen

and my one notebook

to start their arduous work.

if I was a refugee,

I’d live on desperation,

my lungs would scream

my fingers trace my sadness

on the dry desert sand.

had I lived a war,

there’d be scars on my face,

missing limbs and,

maybe even a hardened soul.

i’d have stories to tell,

bullets on display in my workshop.

so what can I write about?

who shall I defy?

no diamonds between my thighs,

no sassiness even if I try.

but still I don’t despair,

I can speak up for the ones

who weren’t born with all my luck,

or, rather, my ordinariness.

and if I can make myself heard,

my voice louder than a whisper,

then I’ll be victorious

cause together we’ll all rise.