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Updated: 6 days ago

I wake up on a Tuesday morning,

6:20 am


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