the blood on my hands

article poem

these bloodstained hands

held in prayer

that they will do right

that I must

trust the process

of this road

dragged down

kicking and screaming

 

these bloodstained hands

protesting

fists held high

this is not me

not my voice

not my choice

never was

never will be

now

 

these bloodstained hands

because

we bleed

all the same color

and yet there is blood

on my own

of my history

my people

my WOMEN

turning blind eye to

truth

the color of skin

-my skin-

radiating privilege

power

whiteness

oppression

 

and yet my sex

not my gender (which is still open to interpretation)

MY SEX

you remember?

the one which is not actually one?

female/weak/power-Less/LIFE-GIVING/creator/bleeding/whore

bled from all its holes

 

the space from which

life begins

is also that

defining me

is also that

oppressing me

 

but these bloodstains

on my hands

the histories

of violence

biting my tongue

halting my stride

privilege pushing me forward

holding me back from

connection to you

fear of

not belonging

here

my body the wall

the walls we build

separation

-separating-

me from you

(Image used with creative commons license by Sarah)


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