My city is burning. Erupting in waves of savage fury spurned on by generations of abuse. We didn’t light the spark but we happily fanned the flames, chanting and dancing around each ember crying to the heavens to be seen. We used your false promises and denials as kindling. Your blatant disregard for our lives as gasoline. We did not ignite the blaze sweeping through the streets.
For generations we owned no wood, nor matches. Were forbidden to learn how to make a pyre, dragged from this world long before we even knew who discovered the first flint.
Yet we are often blamed for the destruction that follows the fire. As if, we are the ones who so carelessly stacked gunpowder and dynamite in a corner and walked away, flinging our cigar ash behind us. As if we could even spare the time to do such things like procuring weapons of mass destruction. Or would have the desire to fling cigar ash if we had it.
We who are barely even considered alive.
Who cannot even walk down the street. Go to the store. Go for a jog. Sleep in a bed curled safely in our lovers arms. We can’t be children in a toy store. We can’t be families at a picnic. We can’t be students. Or caretakers or even police officers off the clock. We cannot be.
So why would you ever think us responsible for the fires? For the rage tearing through your fantasies? For your facade crumbling? We who never had a chance to feel free in this new land. Who were always persecuted for simply being. We did not engulf our cities in flames, but we also did nothing to put out the blaze.