Obscure

I was told my species was too oblivious to see. I had touched my eyes a million times and felt the lashes and fluttered twice. On the pages of history, they had written my name in jumbled letters and narratives insane. In a worn-out book turned upside down, with a broken pen, they had documented our wretched tale. They had tied our clan to dusty bookshelves and broken window panes. They had said the light was too bright for our shade of dark. Words were too precious to be born out of our plump lips. They had then measured the size of our skulls and tied our wrists with uncomfortable chairs in dark waiting rooms. It was said we were not allowed to stand. With blinders on their eyes and ears, my ancestors had sat and sat. It was then declared one fine day that the train to the world had come and left. Their books had barbed guidelines for us. I was told I cannot earn the fare. I am only meant to wait for the fairs of their world. They said they owned the race of power but I don’t owe them my gait. My age-old tale lay buried with rusty fetters and archaic fences.

My color is no man’s race or relay; my being is no man’s land. I am neither too oblivious to see, nor am I too obscure to be. I am neither too trivial to live, nor am I too insignificant to become.