by Ryan Wong
we crawled before we learned to march,
the prints of our hands and knees a path,
drawn
erased
written
burned
spoken
silenced
and carved into the skin with cold flint.
we cradled our palms before we learned to curl them into fists,
swallowing the anger like spit,
heads face-down through the burning in our throats.
the blood on our knuckles is wine—
mulled, pooling under the alleyway concrete since winter came and left.
[here lies the colour of the earth.
i saw it drain from their eyes.]
we kneeled before we learned to stand on glass,
the dye seeping into our veins;
how then, are we to walk silently on broken feet,
leaving behind pink footprints with each step?
[the heart is poisoned and the candles are wax.
hold the prism to your chest and whisper;
may the light of your pulse banish their wrath.]
nothing is different—we have always bled pink.
we will always bleed pink.
