What am I to you?
A name to be buried, a story rewritten,
a mistake to be crossed out?
But I am more than ink.
I am flesh, and bone, and breath.
I love. I hurt. I burn with life.
My blood—red, thick, real—
the same as yours.
The same, yet somehow, to you,
it matters less.
And if it spills, let it not be in silence.
Let it mark the ground with defiance,
let it scream against the weight of oppression.
For if my blood, the same as yours, soaks the earth,
who is to say yours will not follow?
You who watch, who stay silent,
do you think silence will save you?
Tyranny has no favorites.
It consumes, and it does not stop.
Not until it is made to.
Deny its hold.
Defend what is yours.
Depose the ones who think they own you.
Or wait your turn.
Author’s Note:
I wrote this poem from my perspective among a minority group in accordance with current political uproar in the U.S.
Penumbra Poet | 16 | Utah, USA | @penumbrapoet on TikTok
