We’re a dress
or a scarf.

Long hair
twisted in
braids.

Naked girls
with
tattoos
and tattered
vintage shoes.

We aren’t people.

We’re a camper
van in
the woods.

A hash pipe,
a pile of
cocaine,
or the
promise of
rain.

We aren’t people.

We’re a plot
line
or a costume.

An idea
or a joke,

but we’re
not real.

We’re not people.

We don’t have
feelings

and thoughts

and hearts

that hurt

when you

pound us

with your hatred

like fists

pounding

flesh.

We aren’t people.

We’re a tag
on a website,

a myth,

a dream.

But, we
have voices,
screaming.

Voices counting
the names of
our dead.

Voices remembering
each of the
barbed-wire
words that you said.

just wait….

because
you’ll wish we weren’t.

Real.

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