In Writing

I wear my family on my back like a turtle wears her house.
Read this letter for me.
What if they come?
What do I do?

I wear my family on my armor
Of stay away
Of you don’t understand
Of we hold our chins up high.

I wear my family in the thousand tiny cuts that bleed out slowly.
On my cloak of tragedy,
On my stain of sin,
On the hair I try to keep arranged because they say it’s the prettiest thing about me.

I wear the thousand people who came before.
Who scratched in dirt
Who passed on genes that hold on to what’s needed
in case of the inevitable famine.

They weigh heavy
But they are mine.

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