poets should never be left alone with their minds

i’m hard enough to assume
without bringing
words into the
waking guilt
of what it is to be
of residue

i am residue
of erasure
invisible yet of colour
my people are not
real
because band aids never stick
to brown
at North Shore hospital
because words never shield
the migration of never
belonging
because brown is to drown
in and
at their borders

the darkness i know this darkness you know this darkness i screamed at my reflection it was you but i mistook him for the demons in my head
am i blurred?

is my brown
too much too much too much too much
colour?
too much too much too much too much
ritual?
is loving white like
writing of Slums but
sparing her burnt cheeks
the critique of
less colour /
less ritual?

is she the Other
or am I?

is my
residue
of soiled traditions
i carry
on hunched shoulders
too much?

the system only loves the silent
self-loathing
of poets
consumed by notes and noise
but
i am of residue
and therefore
never belonged to
their Truth

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