Head heavy. Cranium
full of lead. Frontal
cortex bursting
with pressure.
Rage.
Fills my body.
Rage. From the
numbness in the tips
of my fingers to
the roots of the
ache in my lower
back. Rage. Is the
sound of the scratched
echo that plays
inside me.
Rage. At the thieves
who've stolen my
emotional land. At
those oblivious
to the difficulties
of our condition.
At those who
dare to be
their authentic
selves without
consequence.
Rage. At the
injustice of this
affliction.
Rage. At it all.
Except
there is
no rage
towards
my melanin.
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