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Marble

I’ve always wondered why
white peoples gods’ chiseled
them out of cold hard marble.
Shaped and sculpted their
fragile skin into being.

My god didn’t mold me.
She met me
halfway between hell and earth.

She asked my name
and wiped my tears.
She gave me a gentle kiss
and with a chuckle
told me,
“Keep livin’ baby”.

I waited for her to
bolster my resolve
and harden my emotions
to the cruelty to come.

I thought she would turn
my fear into salt
my insecurities into weapons.

But she lit a cigar
on my burning desires

“Babydoll the world is cold and hard.”
She held my chin
“If you are hard and cold too,
you’ll roll right off
like a marble on a globe.”

She opened her palm
and I saw myself,
a heap of warm mud.

She set me on the ground
and whispered to me
in my primordial soup,
“the more they chop,
the deeper you’ll root.
They will run out of axes
before you run out of earth.
They can burn the world to ashes
and still, you can regrow.”