Today, I am 70% made up of acid.

I wake up and the walls of my belly are caving in. Everything is rising up until my windpipe is a pond of burning matter. I rage over geographical borders. I will explain to you; not everything that’s said nowadays is hallow. I know, history used to draw us into a picture, and if we looked up, it’s holy. If we looked down, it’s holy. And if we hit shore, oh land, all your water was holy. And I’m looking for the point in time where we got banished outside of self-love, through narrow doors, shoulders caved in like shame.

So I look to the north of you, land, and I see a golden crown on fire. It was still holy. I look south of you, land, and I see genesis, I see heaven cultivated with blood. It was still holy. Today, I don’t believe in your borders, only your skies. Transcending beyond your pride, I know you used to offer love in abundance. Arabia-felix, you were beating with joy. But I rage dipping my feet in your Gulf of oil pipelines and green waters, your Red Sea about to burst at the seam like it did for the israelites.

Today today I’m tired tired of your repetition, land. 

When we broke the holiest of waters and screeched into being it was that same water that sustained you. Your motherhood was massacred when you failed our mothers. 
Now let us learn how to belong to all of you