A tear sheds.

And I continue to write the name of yet another European man who thought it scientific to¬† prick, poke, and prod the insides of my mother’s, mother’s, mother and put them on display. Her skin tears. He knows that I too feel the pain. How could I not when he has sliced and diced my mother into a game that he calls Life. That he calls Fair.

A game that he has constructed, game that he has mastered over, beat Fear into. He is the only one that plays. Makes the rules himself and for everyone else who cannot play but be played with. He. decides who is fit, who is desirable. Bases every image as other and every other as savage. He. makes sure that when he goes, his legacy will live in infrastructure, live in customs, and live in law. Long live the worthy he says. And destroys all that he sees as degenerate and fixes us into boxes he’s checked before we’ve understood ourselves by our names and not the ones he’s called us. And though his voice haunts me, still, I will tell my children the same words my mother tells me: You are Strong. You are Beautiful. You are Intelligent. You are Divine. You are Love. You are Power-full.