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.