Vox Populi

The heavy eyelids are about to succumb. Contemplating this wretched scenario guised of freedom and prestige is extremely discouraging. Your eloquence and enlightening analysis are killing the few sparks that were in the verge of ignition.

I want to attach a bomb to my chest, and maybe then, you will listen to me. To us. When my brain was created, your god and my god put a border between two of my brain regions to avoid a hateful encounter between you and me. I can imagine, but I can’t react.

I can’t touch you, I can’t shake you, I can’t hit you. I can’t kiss you.

You are above me, and my romance language keeps my head low. My tongue is scared; it will stutter in front of your magnificent presence. These pedestals are immobile.

You keep sharing with me your subversive discourse passionately, as if you were expecting that my minority status will welcome your elusive understanding of minorities. It will not. It is tired of being analyzed, dissected, intellectualized, appropriated. It goes from one owner to another. We will never be you; You will never be us. I will never be them. My self is the origin of my struggle and the creed of your domination.

Striping is draining. Every layer on my skin carries a tear, a bloodstain, a drop of sweat, an eradicated gene. Every pore in my skin is a footprint of each single day that we’ve been silenced and neglected. How can I face you, when I cannot even face myself?

I cannot touch the breasts that nurture our souls, or the wide hips that strengthen our march. We are moveless, and my rusty body is eager to be touched.