do i need to
slice off the tip of my tongue
and watch my sins bleed off
my pale, shivering lipsfor you to understand me?
do i need to
roast my pale, winter skin, leave it
burning under the sun,
until i can no longer feelfor you to finally stop laughing?
do i need to
crawl out of my hoodies and sweaters,
lose a reminder of my
fading pastfor you to treat me like i'm normal?
do i need to
mirror all you do and simply fall
into a typical stereotype of what
i've been destined to befor you to just fucking smile at me?
i am not your typical
Abu nor Ali nor Danial Irfan,
but why, of all beautiful names
language has bestowed upon us,do you call me an "invader"?
as if it were i who had indeed
settled to dominate your country
- no, our country -
and exploit us of our riches.as if it were i who had indeed
massacred the men fighting
for the sakes of our liberation
for our excited screams of freedom.as if it were i who had indeed
chosen to be born in the outside world.as if it were i who had indeed
let geography define me as an alien:an invader.
once upon a time, i thought i'd understood
the concept of home sweet home,
of a country united by love
and undying, relentless passion.yet with this bleeding tongue,
this morphed, warped appearance,
and this broken, broken heart
do i understand that there is no home.for if i am not of my nation,
nor am i of my very own name,
what am i simply but
what society has dubbed me?i am
an invader.
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It (#Wattys2016)
Poetry| 1st Place for Summer Sun Awards (Beginner's Firsts) | | 2nd Place for the Pinpoint Awards | | Finalist for the 2016 Awards | It matters not what people think regarding things you believe strongly in. Perhaps, it may even help to even spread...