The stigmas we put on ourselves,
the one my family tree placed on me.
The kinds that were taught generation
Kept on the bedside table told every night
before I went to sleep.
Whispered the sound near my cheek,
yet begging my ear not to hear,
these stigmas that have lingered
far longer than my existence.
This presence of mine, I
hope it shows you how wrong you are
to ever think that you are fine
abiding the concepts of the archive.
The archaic introduction, embraced --
orthodox, unreplaced --
ignoring and enabling --
these stigmas lingered
until they became the norm.
Norm that oppresses,
norm that expects,
norm that generalizes,
norm that wishes for me to be something
I do not want to be.
Norm that forces me to kiss his feet,
and beg for a new opportunity.
Norm that makes me cry at night and
hug the sheets that lay over me
because I can never take them for granted --
it is not my choice whether or not they cover me.
Norm that begs me to find a flaw
and fix it. Norm that asks for my forgiveness,
yet refuses to change.
Norm that is the stigma,
that refuses to go away.