i was cut open today

by the anguish in the cries

of our young people

insisting to matter

in a world where they don't 

in a world where their skin

means criminal, 

savage,

and not human. 

i was cut open today

by the breaking

of my friend's voice

when he called aloud

the names of all the black

kids,

brothers,

sisters,

mothers,

fathers,

humans

that have been taken from us,

and he said "there are so many,

god, so many,"

but we are only halfway through

a never-ending list. 

i was cut open today

by the look of pain

that formed upon the faces

of my beloved sisters

at the apathetic cars that were

too impatient,

too bothered,

too indifferent

to slow down or stop for

our broken hearts,

our broken spirits,

our broken bodies. 

in this world,

in this grief,

in this sorrow,

i am cut open

again and again. 

i am emptied

then refilled,

emptied,

then refilled

with immense sadness,

with immense rage,

with immense pain. 

these waters flow past the brim

and in this release,

there is a break of love,

there is a break of hope,

there is a break of light

that make their way in

briefly yet powerfully. 

it is this tormented exhale

that brings the deepest inhale. 

i am breathing,

we are breathing,

this is what it means

to be us

and alive.

i'm from the womb of my mama, four feet and 11 inches tall but rising high beyond the skies with matriarchal power. 

i'm from the belly of a woman raised on a land terrorized by falling empires and colonizer watch towers. 

i'm from the flesh and bones of a daughter of a country i can only claim halfway, half-heartedly, and half of the time.

i'm from the belly of a soldier brought over to the states to escape, but in vain, cuz here, we're foreigners eternally, and by design. 

i'm from the corner of 42nd ave & southcenter blvd, by a 76 where i first learned to take without buying. 

i'm from food stamps, broken english, white rice, and cross your arms then bow your head when saying hi to ong ba ngoai. 

i'm from jump rope, tagging walls, and bike rides down the block. 

i'm from false hope, identity loss, and fist fights off the clock. 

i'm from straight a's or no play, stay put or keep out the way, 

i'm from fake praise, model minority, puffed up, though never caucasian. 

i'm from agent orange, thunderstorms, and refugee scorn.

i'm from pages torn, forever foreign, and cultural mourning.

i'm from the cries of racist sayings, like "go home f-o-b, this is our usa",

i’m from "why your eyes misshaped - only open halfway?"

where i'm from, we straddle two worlds that never meet and never match. 

where straddling is home, because to one, we don't belong, and the other, don't want us back. 

where i'm from, we are torn from our roots and placed in thirsty soil.

where nostalgia meets imports & the dirt takes endless toil. 

where i'm from, the american dream teases but doesn't apply.

where success means to appease, to abide in the silence by standards that aren't mine.

home is in the belly of a soldier brought over to the states to escape, but in vain, cuz here, we're foreigners eternally, and by design. 

home is the flesh and bones of a daughter of a country i can only claim halfway, half-heartedly, and half of the time.

home is the belly of a woman raised on a land terrorized by falling empires and colonizer watch towers. 

home is the womb of my mama, four feet and 11 inches tall but rising high beyond the skies with matriarchal power.