Rite of Passage: I Am Not Welcomed

I ran home that day, raped myself of all
cutting-edge fashion, and sat immobile in
that hallway; it knew every slit of brine fallen
from my ostracized eyes, and was habituated to
scenes of my conscience in shame. The chemistry of my
contemplation, latent. The contour of my alliance
with poetry was disclosed through the windowpane; as I
shut human ambiance off, the production of salt stung from
lurid to lax.

Braless and alone; the moldy recess with the built-in rickety
heater kept my fur cavities lying down, while the mixture
of Jolene’s peroxide burnt the stigma of dark away. Figuratively,
there lounged not a terrorist bone in my Iranian form, I vocalized
White bitches must die, as my American citizenship became
ethnically perturbed.

Stirring my electrolysis-sparked skin an era later, while the
silence of sunset never thinks twice, is an impression of
partiality further abysmal than my fledgling madness; consumerism
targets the cultured. Beauty is Pain, a colonizer’s creed pursuing
me, an American inhabited by none other than her own.