Long live the dead we prop ourselves up on,

The cane we pass off as our leg.

Long live the gods that money trickles down from,

The temples made of bars and shaved heads on foreign shores

That we build to please them.

Long live rallies, the riots, 

The danger that comes to those who call themselves our saviors 

When we organize.

Forget the tyrants that we designed ourselves not to become.

Forget the hope symbol that the hopeless used to flock to

Forget the pledge you repeat every day,

Think only of the one nation under that god,

And long live the new America.

I'm looking in the mirror,

I don't match the picture on the screen,

should I be sad or pleased?

One click at a time,

one more scroll,

oops I fell down the rabbit hole.

Is that the way out or in?

Why are they so much prettier than me?

I'll never be that slim,

maybe I'm supposed to figure out how to look pretty from within?

So many questions,

another search could help,

and another,

and maybe a click on her profile,

she might know.

Wait how did I end up here?

Right,

beauty from within,

but her hair looks so perfect,

and her body never looks unfit,

make-up done flawlessly to the point you would never see through it.

I can't help but think maybe I was never meant to fit in,

with a body that feels big,

hair that's not as long,

skin that will never be clear like the women I saw,

and a smile that will never blind the eyes of any man who walks by.

The mirror looks blurry now,

my screens wet,

time to wipe my tears again for another day that I dread.

Let me float

In a sea of poetry,

Words weaving my hair,

Verses like seawater

Trickling into my heart

And lapping against the shores

Of the eternally hoping arteries;

Let the stars above me

Be knots tied of love

By hands calloused

By the gentle roughness of hope

As they turn over and over

A shard of glass

Until it’s edges smooth;

Let a single tear fall

From the corner of my eye,

Shattering the smooth surface of sea

Into shards I’ll scoop up

With calloused hands

And tuck into my heart,

Braid into my hair,

Mold with my palms;

Let the sea

Flood my heart.

When I lean against my grandma 

On the green couch 

She talks about things that used to be 

Does that mean 

When I’m her 

My grandkids won’t understand 

How I picked a flower yesterday

I picked a flower it was yellow

Lots of yellow really some random bush

With lots of yellow

Yes I just found it growing

Up out

Of the

Ground

Will they not understand picking a flower yesterday

Up out of the dirt?

How I looked at the stars yesterday

Yes they’re still there

Probably

We just can’t see them

We used to look up it was like

Someone spilt sugar on mom’s indigo apron

We knew a few 

Constellations

Not the way your teachers make you

Memorize them now

There’s happiness in knowing they’re there

Not knowing

What clique they’re part of

But will you only ever know the stars

From VR headsets and oral reports

Will you never understand

Looking up at the stars last night?

Will I want to stand up

Off the couch and scream

I picked a flower yesterday

I looked at the stars yesterday

Screaming willing

It to be true?

Please make it true.