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Was it one week?

Or was it a year?

I don’t know

Because in reality

It was my whole life.

And yours.

“The other day I was reading about something in the news.”

A beat.

“That’s awful.”

A beat.

That’s all.


But it’s not.

Because someone cared.

Someone commented.

Knit a sweater

To warm those affected

By this not-so-natural disaster.

But someone else

Someone faceless and grey

Tugged on a thread

Split this thread.

I don’t like comments.

Comments give a platform to those who’d rather see you crawl

Than stand up for what’s right.

A platform to those plagued by selective sight.

To abort this sentence is one person’s right.

And scratch that, they’re not plagued.

Hate is not some disease they couldn’t help but catch.


Go back to your country?

Hate translates.

Tell me.

From where do you originate?

Because no matter where you procreate

Your roots grow in someone else’s soil.

So hear these comments.


The color of my face is

Not one you can attenuate

The language of my earth is

Not one you can permeate

The folds of my body are

Not ones you can penetrate


With your bleach.


Not with a false username.

Not even in the name

Of God.


Your God.

They sell him at drugstores, you know.


Sometimes he’s free.

I see Him

In your empty profile picture.

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