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To Summer Rogers's previous piece

the day Mama was born

I rushed breakfast of cake and coffee. My morning was drowsy like the sun that day. The crispness of my routine painted the air, the portrait of naiveté. I didn't know. I didn't know why they came. Why they hated, trying not to hurt. How do we live the way we do? Made in somewhere other than America becomes a part of my story. I was burned into history, but I'll trade the world not to be the center of attention, the center of this mausoleum they name after me. Keep your war, it doesn't include me because I'm countries of cultures away; distant from your standard and regulation. Americans classified by hyphenation deserve to lack patriotism. Punctuating hyphens cannot merely connect the lack of lineage. By the very root of the word, I'm in bondage, tied to a faith, I do not know by name. Posting missions in every landscape, in order for God to be everywhere, I christen your future, hissing over your past. Today, the flea weighs more than stock in the market. The unmarked martyr involuntarily sleeps because the city chooses not to. The price of inflation, like heroin smuggling; is the current event. Addiction is still over-rated. Your news revealed pictures that resembled my backyard. It's been now made public that home fronts will lose their shelter. Repetition of crowded smoke clouds out people, hollowing out the souls. Empty borders refrain from further headline. The world is getting b(itch)ackslapped; whose sides are we're on anyway? The intelligentsias become couch potatoes while the underdog writes the script. Can we talk about this later? My breakfast is getting cold.

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