Wake up to parents sitting in front of a rumbling television
coffee cups in hand
The rumbling is the sound of the footsteps of protesters,
their anger rippling through the television
across the world.
Pour a cup of coffee for myself,
check the social media to more rumbling
more stomping
more crying
tear-gas crying
and emotions raining
mixed into a river down on Holy Ground.
Turn off the phone,
find breakfast,
then find lunch.
Wrap the softest scarf in my drawers around my hair.
Find a cardio machine to run on,
earphones in my ears,
with blaring red headlines,
"fake news" and real news sparing one another on one screen.
Run faster
and faster
while the headlines grow worse,
and the faces grow more orange
the hair a faker blond,
run until the pain in my legs is worse than the pain of watching headlines.
Shower the pain away,
watch it circle down the drain,
into ground too far from holy.
Hear Mama and Tata celebrate victory,
watch videos and videos and videos of victory.
Touch the screen,
try to quench my thirst for freedom from the celebrations of victors.
Drive in my car,
listen to songs about love and lust
by people who have so much freedom they are blinded to it.
See baby Zaida,
forget the world while I stroke every hair on her head,
watch her breathe,
listen to the singing of innocence on her tongue,
swim in the beauty of eyes who see no wrong-yet-
and envy her.
Kiss her forehead goodbye until the next visit,
lie to myself that I will not miss her as soon as her small, warm body is separate from my arms.
Get work done,
check photos of Zaida,
take a moment to breathe snippets of the sunset,
let it sink in.
Loosen my scarf,
let the breeze tickle the tips of my ears, my eyelashes, me.
Believe that if life gets too hard,
try to look at it all for the first time.
Listen like you're doing so for the first time.
Breathe like you're breathing for the first time.
Try to hold these snippets in your fist,
hide them from time;
maybe then they won't fly away so quickly.
coffee cups in hand
The rumbling is the sound of the footsteps of protesters,
their anger rippling through the television
across the world.
Pour a cup of coffee for myself,
check the social media to more rumbling
more stomping
more crying
tear-gas crying
and emotions raining
mixed into a river down on Holy Ground.
Turn off the phone,
find breakfast,
then find lunch.
Wrap the softest scarf in my drawers around my hair.
Find a cardio machine to run on,
earphones in my ears,
with blaring red headlines,
"fake news" and real news sparing one another on one screen.
Run faster
and faster
while the headlines grow worse,
and the faces grow more orange
the hair a faker blond,
run until the pain in my legs is worse than the pain of watching headlines.
Shower the pain away,
watch it circle down the drain,
into ground too far from holy.
Hear Mama and Tata celebrate victory,
watch videos and videos and videos of victory.
Touch the screen,
try to quench my thirst for freedom from the celebrations of victors.
Drive in my car,
listen to songs about love and lust
by people who have so much freedom they are blinded to it.
See baby Zaida,
forget the world while I stroke every hair on her head,
watch her breathe,
listen to the singing of innocence on her tongue,
swim in the beauty of eyes who see no wrong-yet-
and envy her.
Kiss her forehead goodbye until the next visit,
lie to myself that I will not miss her as soon as her small, warm body is separate from my arms.
Get work done,
check photos of Zaida,
take a moment to breathe snippets of the sunset,
let it sink in.
Loosen my scarf,
let the breeze tickle the tips of my ears, my eyelashes, me.
Believe that if life gets too hard,
try to look at it all for the first time.
Listen like you're doing so for the first time.
Breathe like you're breathing for the first time.
Try to hold these snippets in your fist,
hide them from time;
maybe then they won't fly away so quickly.
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