“Cueros al sol”

The sun’s lips compress my inside,
my legs began to crawl into their
shimmering blue eyes and I drown
to belong to a land that isn’t mine.

The sweetness of cinnamon powders
dances in woven threads,
holding my warmth of color-
keeping me safe.

I cry as their bleach outside
absorbs into mine.
Adapting to you
because I want a better tomorrow.

I’m label as an “immigrant”
and because I’m proud to wear
this warm woven threads.

But I miss the broken parts
that constructed me.
I miss my family and the culture
that was supposed to be in woven in me.

Ever since my footprints touch
the sand of this “American Land.”
It vanished with the wind
by the screaming labels
I had to fill since the first grade.

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