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.
| 
