The land are graves,
Oceans are blood,
As the sweat drips and drips,
And strips of my identity are peeling off
My knees bend upon the “ifs”
If my skin never touched american soil
If my body were filled with scars like my ancestors
Though such scars were replaced with delicacy,
As nurses wrapped me in red, blue, and blue
And calls for help were replaced with hellos
when God’s creation bled in the hands of soldiers
As all I was taught to bleed for a country bombing my own. Though at this point, there is no cure
Not another citizen test for my parents to pass,
Not another language for them to learn
Filthy white stars blind my eyes,
Birthmarks disappear with no remembrance
As the statue of liberty separates me into two halves
My mothers tongue, chewed and spit out,
Is buried in the soil
With no proof of existing
I look for the moon above,
Yet the stars are glimmering,
In ways my bones have never felt,
Reflecting with the dreams of my Fathers father,
I no longer look for the moon,
As the stars are too distracting,
To notice
Anything else

By Tamia Hassan


Tamia Hassan is a fifteen-year-old writer and journalist from Minneapolis. In her free time, she writes poetry, short stories, and articles. Apart from writing, Tamia likes to read and crochet in her free time.

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