Your Leather, My Skin

Every morning is premature.
All of them are an abortion of
a morning
and the days after
days after days
I watch
the same repetitive
movements this race
as machine does
with the exception that
they laugh about it.
They even take pleasure on it,
thing no machinery can do.

What am I just not yet?
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
Your leather? My skin!
Your leather? My brother's skin!
Your leather? My mother's skin!

All mornings have been an abortion
of a morning since my family
(I heard my mother cry, "I love you son")
Skinned alive
(refusing to walk to his death my
brother was clubbed in the head one, two, three, four times)
thrown out
(I lost count on carcasses forming this pile of nothingness in which my family was buried down)
(our skins floating on lakes of chemicals, you think the blood is just gonna be washed away?)
dyed down
(make of this scene a painting as bright and colorful as possible so you can sleep at night)
All in the name of what?
Unless you all have magically become fashion designers,
here at this very audience
you're the ones to be wearing
the skin of my kind.
So next time you think leather
Skinned alive, thrown out,
Drowned, dyed down,
Your leather? My skin!


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