Daddy's dying tongue lies under my skin, forgotten.
The sweat on my back: the blood of a woman
Assaulted and assimilated into your house,
Crying out from the ground for justice.
I stand here as my mother's child,
A poor, queer, disabled, trans person of colour,
Generations of silence live on in the screams I never let go.
We grieve our stolen names, identities lost in the reflection of unshed tears.
YOU ARE READING
Scratches On My Gravestone
PoetryA collection of poems written by little ol' me, created to be discovered, but not remembered.
