History wasn’t written by us,
And yet, I feel tears pricking my cheeks,
—Like deepening nails—when I view it pass
me by.
I listen to the reincarnated sounds of
centuries past,
And I wonder if the creator knew
what would
become of their legacy.
Will I be remembered?
Will my words look as foreign and
shapely to others?
History wasn’t
written by you, or I,
But I see it repeated
in our breathless dances,
our hushed conversations,
our intimate decisions.
I take my skin and I make a monument;
a monolith of the past everlasting.
I look at love and I see it
in the works of those who
cannot understand my existence
as anything other than
divine or demonic.
I am the history I too cannot
understand, but maybe I can
resurrect it with graveyard dirt
and my tree-root blood.
