To My Daughter

we are the in between
neither black nor white
we are the mud
the mix between the menstrual flow of the planet
and the machismo ground beneath our feet
we are the brown
the piece of construction paper that is thrown away
the ugly created when mixing too many colors
the only crayon chosen when coloring Martin Luther King
or dirt
we are the cockroaches
despised and disgusted
but even with the bam of a stomping manly foot
we refuse to die
we are the voice of the wind
loud and undesirable
yet never failing to predict future weather
always pounding, always screaming
always wailing
like a mother at a funeral
hands clasped in prayer, jesus on her neck,
father, son, holy wombyn
we are the broken
puzzle pieces on the floor forgotten in a disarray
of politics and pride
we are the proud
never to falter
always to blame
forever changing, but our love
we are revolution
we are malinche
we are beautiful
and we have voices
don’t ever be silenced.

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