Not my president

At work over the counter a white man
tells me to smile tells me he doesn’t like seeing me
like this which is to say my wounds are ugly
and not for public viewing which is to say the blood
on his hands is bleached, and he walks in as the door chimes
the day after the world ends when we didn’t believe it would
and tells me life goes on because it does
and also because it does easily for him,
for his cisdom, his patriarch.
I want to tell him he makes my stomach
curl inside of itself like a probed caterpillar
but he is only the least of the bunch,
and my hurt is only second or third tier
I have no hijab to rip, still have crystalized royalty
in my skin for its shade, am allotted my whiteness
like a flag waved in the face of a pigment ruptured world.

The man in the kitchen tells me my tears are inspirational,
inspiring the rest of us white men to say, oh yeah,
that was last night? What happened, anyways?
and I could flattened and frame his confusion
when I tell him the orange bigot won this whole country
and gobbled it into his greedy assaulting mouth.
He gapes at the joke I didn’t realize we’re living
but he’s the least of the bunch, and as big
as my sweater gets and as much as it envelops
and pillows around my parts, I forever want to hide,
forever feel a wrinkling hand climbing up my abdomen
and I can’t stop it, want to rip my womb out and lock it up
just so they can’t touch me anymore, they keep touching me, mom,
I want to cry, I’m crying, they keep touching me,
why won’t this end when does it end where do we go from here?

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