Five

I am lying here, a subtle caress

away from losing

any faith I had in myself,

and I’m a whisper

away from giving up- I am

not brave when I’m with them.

I only speak my

mind when I know everyone

will agree with me, and

when I know that it

won’t end like this, like me

being a wreck on the

floor, and I ignore

my ideals when convenient-

courage only tastes good

when it’s sampled with

kindness, when it’s mixed

with being agreeable,

when it defies prejudice

in the most privileged

way possible; I am not

brave when I’m with them.

I’m just what they expect

me to be, even my arguments

are ones that sit

comfortably on their bias, and

even my rebelliousness

is something that’s worn

by so many people before me,

it slipped into the status quo,

and now, now I know that

everything I do is done

with the caution of someone

with nothing to lose except

their privilege, except

their comfortable existence,

except their claim to an

injustice they’ve never felt.

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