pale skin, dainty hands, easily blushed cheeks.
white voices dubbed over mine, deemed faces of the revolution.
forced open mouths turn into words ripped out of tongues, shoveled into the wrong hands.
american martyrs, bred to stomp over my brethren.
on the other side,
fair skin creams are peddled to my sisters.
my relatives praising me for my pale skin this summer, unblemished by the sun.
men with practically the same genetics, berate me for not conforming.
there are feet on my back, holding me and my companions at gunpoint.
do you really think this was all a coincidence?
white architects, running on seemingly innocent tears, drawing up the newest blueprints for suffering.
all engineered by the movement we fought to create.
i love the word choice used in this piece and it's so well-structured!