We are natives of a land that none of us owns. Yet this world offers
no place; none except the outskirts, where the abominations of our
kind are left undisturbed.
Privilege is as rare as desert rain. The pigment of our skin is darker
than fair. We are unlettered. We are voiceless. We have nothing but
bones and dust on our plates.
We are made obscure — mere footnotes and appendices. Our shapes and
faces not as inspiring to paint. We are unclean. We have addictions
and demons to conquer from within.
We are silenced for we see the world with nonconforming eyes. We take
the road less traveled; the unpopular choices, we make. We are
deviants, simply too different to embrace.
We: You and I. I am each one of you.
You are outcasts in this realm but not in mine. No one speaks of your
death but your lives, honoured in every word I write. Your home is
this soul, our existence, intertwined.
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