Namely
Updated: 6 days ago
I wake up on a Tuesday morning,
6:20 am
Sharp-ish
The very moment the brow of the horizon shines at its seam
A class period away before I hear a jumbled word called
A hand flails into the air
The mumble of a simple “present”
As my classmates welcome their well-known titles
But that term upon your lips
The one that is mine
It might as well be a pseudonym
Resembling the structure of my heritage
You play with it on your tongue
Repeat it twice
Once for indulgence
The second time for my sake
Slightly confused
And expecting
Barely coherent through muddied senses
What else can I say but yes?
I’m tired of not caring
And as I write it in the upper right margin of my worksheet,
Lead to paper in a smooth motion
It’s too distant of a phrase
Washed out by the lazy drawl of white tongues
To the point where sometimes I forget it
And sometimes it’s too fruitless to remember
It’s happened for a millennium.
I know too many stories worse than mine
At least mine isn’t forgotten
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