i was raised by immigrants that knew nothing but hard work. refugees that misplaced themselves to be placed in a place that wouldn’t give them fairest chance, but a better chance that home did. a home didn’t want them there at first, but a home that one day – hopefully – would accept me and my future children. i was raised by these migrants who didn’t speak the language, but their fair skin blended, giving them the fairest chance as long as they kept those lips stitched. and now as I watch them go, slowly into the ground that once didn’t want them to stand proudly, I don’t see the holes they rest on as much as I see the worlds they built for me. worlds without whispers as voices, worlds without blinders for eyes, worlds without ceilings so when you tell me keep my feelings to myself, or to see your reality while you disregard mine, or you tell me indirectly that we won’t evolve – expect me to speak a little louder, push a little harder, and grow a little more aware.


About inkforthought

i just like to create, share, love, and laugh.
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