The Mask Is Slipping

I am not confused.

I am not afraid.

I see the gatekeepers

sitting pretty in their systems,

smiling through their masks

while they lock the doors behind them.

But I was born outside those gates.

A black sheep in white skin,

five feet of fury,

heart cracked open by grief,

voice sharpened by silence.

I’ve been gaslit, ghosted,

left behind by the people

who swore they loved me.

I’ve watched the court play fair

for the ones who lie best.

But I didn’t break.

I burned.

And I’m still burning.

I won’t play nice

while they cage the innocent,

call the unhoused “lazy,”

and label the undocumented “illegal”

on stolen land.

I won’t soften my voice

so others can stay asleep.

I came here

to name the unspoken,

to call out the masks,

to tear down the script,

to be one of the voices

that shakes the silence loose.

You don’t have to like it.

But you won’t unhear it.

And I won’t un-say it.