The woman’s tender hands grasp onto yours.
You aren’t sure whether or not she can understand you.
The wrinkles in her skin bleed, red,
the blood spilled on borrowed homes and fear.
She speaks with a split mouth wearing borrowed clothes,
The more you unravel about her country
the closer her hands move,
until they lay on your neck.
The tender woman turns vile.
She quickly becomes poisonous,
like the words so hatefully thrown at her
every time she speaks in her native tongue.
Yet, whenever she attempts speaking [broken] English
she is shattered and shunned for it.
How much hate does it take to make a proud woman
so ashamed in her own skin? This woman
threw away her culture, for a country whose people
want to appropriate it.