My country perceives me as a sketch.
Thick and thin strokes
of a shadowed body living rough,
caught inside its finite web.
In necessary moments,
I am grudgingly glanced by the ‘not all’
who leave the systemic threads
of our unfinished union to hang,
stitched in tight, tangled, ragged, and dirty,
for open eyes to see.
Much of my country believes
that fear is a governing principle.
They are weaving larger shards of it into the places I live.
Broken glass theory raising welts,
breaking skin.