on the validity of validation

what is it you

see when you look at

me that makes me

less to you?

a tone of skin

unlike yours, curves you are not

used to, a culture you do not

know, a life you have not

seen, less

money, more

dreams?

what is it you

see that makes my

humanity

obsolete?

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the apathy of flower picking

this summer I

watched the way you kept

picking roses and pricking

your fingers

on the thorns and

my arms held themselves

open for the tears you

shed but now

I

am the one

picking roses and pricking

my fingers and through my

tears I see

your arms crossed

in front of you.

spilling secrets over tower bridge

The snow settled onto the chocolate brown of her hair, making her semblance even more magical than I had grown accustomed to. She tucked a strand delicately behind her ear and turned to face me.

“They will wave their hands in the air proudly and shout that the world was made for people like them and not for people like us, ” she began.

She paused slightly then and, despite the nature of the conversation, a soft smile appeared on her cherry lips.

“But, ” she added,
“what they won’t tell you is that the world was made by people like us, and not by people like them.”

We continued walking, our footsteps fading away quickly behind us. It occurred to me at that moment that I would likely never learn the art of understanding her.