2017 looks a lot like history

It fucks me up to think that
we only measure time
from when we decided
to start counting it.

That if we started counting from the exact time of Earth’s creation,
this saturday might technically
be a thursday.

February might have already passed.

That picture I took of the moon earlier
has a date written on it
that might not belong to that night.

And isn’t that
fucked up?

That we started counting
without knowing what the start was?

That when Jesus was born,
we called that time “zero”.
Called it year zero and
every year after that had a number?
How every second after that
was a second away
from the time this man’s existence
was a first?

And I laugh to myself.

How in 2017, I still see articles with titles like:
“first black woman to ever…”
“first transgender woman to ever…”
“first muslim woman to ever…”
“first woman to ever…”

How we call the time before these “firsts”:
zero,
even though history clearly shows there was plenty before them.

History clearly uses BC,
as in,
Before Christ,
as in,
before zero.

History clearly calls BS,
as in,
bullshit
on your prejudice.

But apparently,
history
doesn’t
count.

on why i stopped yelling back

snowballs, spitballs,
& speculations about your sexuality:
slurs on the street can never guess.

if you do respond, you’ll never prove them wrong.
you’re not you to them.
you’re green jacket and long hair.
you’re earbuds and quick step.
you’re easy target.

say nothing & they fill in the gap of
your personality with what they’re
already convinced of.

say something, give them a droplet of
the ocean that you are, & they’ll try to drown
you with a different kind of depth.

so if they’ll only remember you by your
quickened pace & call you anything but
your name,

know that almost 100 % of the stars that
we see at night are just optical illusions.
the actual star lies a little bit to the left.

or a few light years to the right.

been writing this same poem for years

Since I have already been handed
one too many maps to my body.

We’ve established that it is buried.

At least, I know what’s it’s like to be
too tragedy
to be alive
and
too alive
to be forgotten.

Too alive
to be left alone.

Is this what equal rights,
i mean,
extra rights,
are?

To have your coffin
upgraded
to a lounging room.
To be able to walk around
the events,
maybe even be a little
productive
and bury yourself.

Somewhere between trampled and fighting back,
I am the vines around neon sighs
that do a better job that the lights
to get you to ask yourself if I’m
worth the hassle of entry.

Somewhere between tramped and fighting back,
I’m the flower that hates its body
for growing around the foot that stepped
on it. You call it survival, i
call these genes battle scars.

Somewhere between tramped and fighting back
withered under the weight of holding back.
I am spitting out dirt,
I am
digging
my way
out.

weekdays

There’s so little poetry to breathe,
if your gasps for air are called annoying.
Do you remember a time when catching your breath
was not an act of rebellion?

When your lungs were just lungs
and their expansion was not
a protest – you were not required a
witness to prove you’re not asking for too much,

that you need this oxygen.
When your demand for equal rights
is labeled “too opinionated”
and its just too difficult

for everyone to not call
you slurs. And I can’t tell if these
mornings are the trigger
or the trauma. The familiar

feeling of distance.
My heartbeat is once again
a fire alarm, my feet are a broken
traffic light and I really, really need

to get out of here.
Friends are a test of patience,
and trailing off is just a defense
mechanism for your secrets.

And you stay hungry
because your blood boiling
is all the heat that
the kitchen can handle.

Can you remember a time
when your body wasn’t a
controversial monument?
When your love wasn’t

a civil war?
When the ground
beneath your feet
belonged to you?