at the rally a child holds a sign that makes me cry. there are shouts for justice in languages I don’t understand. on the sandstone steps they tell stories of their families and friends they’ve lost to the greed of white men chasing land that isn’t theirs. there is weeping and the shouts grow louder. the crowd is told to contain their rage and march with dignity for fear of arrests or what they’ll say about us on the news. we live in a world of lost sense: in which we keep shopping as the bombs drop, and demands for peace or waving a flag is condemned as dangerous by those funding the massacre of babies in hospital beds. displays of outrage and fury are more newsworthy than the genocide that stirs them. tens of thousands of innocent martyrs are no match for a dead dame and a football game. I laugh at this fake plastic world we have made, and yet every day I don my robes and play my part in the farce. I wake to the facade of stability and sunshine and I am ashamed of the peace I am afforded because of where I was born. I wash every inch of skin and it’s never enough.
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