i trace america’s outline on a map,
flinch when i reach the thirteen.
a single prick on my fingertip.
a single drop of blood
(the shape of a dog bares its teeth)
another drop of blood
(the shape of a crow tilting its head)
america has stood on my back and jumped,
the vertebrae of my spine colliding
like tectonic plates.
but with a smirk
nestled in the corner of my mouth,
i am the child of cynicism.
cut yourself on my serrated smile
and bleed the truth that i thirst for.
Written by Simonne Elease Willis, a a budding poet aspiring to integrate her interests in literature, black intersectional issues, and nonprofit organizations.