I exist as a double impostor. My sun-kissed island skin doesn’t belong here but the pretensions and imitations I’ve cloaked it in couldn’t belong anywhere else.
I am one of the lucky ones. I am one of the lucky ones
and because of that there is no home to return to,
only the empty tomb,
the reanimated corpse of shared pain
that gave us a name to cry out in the dark.
No opposition but the colonizer’s tongue parroted back to him.
The land was taken from us until all we had was the sea and its wordless expanse. The waves crash against the sand to destroy and create double lives that collapse under their own weight
and the sea continues to run through me
and spits me out with feeling.
I say that I am stronger for it.
Still this narrative I construct nauseates me, the mythical object of white pity that I have so ruthlessly lived in reaction to.
The genealogy of my pain is not metaphor.
I shouldn’t have to make myself a caricature to be seen.
— escaping was the easy part.