i think I was born with
the taste of their blood in my mouth;
their story intertwined with mine
long before i was old enough
to start writing it.
the word genocide
passed down through generations–
an unwanted inheritance
laying heavy on our lips and
etched into the lines on
our palms.
a word small enough to hold
in the palms of your
hands holds the history
of a nation.
a word comprised of the lives
of 1.5 million, written in sets of
footprints in desert sands.
we are a people defined
by genocide.
we are the generations born
from the blood spilled before
us– a people who will fight to
have their history
bloom bloody red
with a stem of thorns.
their battle,
their blood, their lives
are now ours.
There is no their.
We are our.
Silenticel 