They paint our walls white.
Like they paint our culture.
White walls of a Victorian home.
Built over the graves of our ancestors.
I tried to warn you mamma,
that they would take your home and mine.
I wrote it on the walls,
…..our past and our struggles.
I write on walls until I feel safe enough to speak;
until my face can exist without silence….
until you’re ready to hear my voice.
So continue painting over our walls.
Paint layers and layers.
But when the paint dries and the rain comes,
We will pick it at the white walls until our stories brighten the streets again…..