I can see the watered-down half-truths in your eyes.
Your lips form textbook words; whitewashed lies,
Backhanded apologies because you are allergic to blame.
You introduced me to reality; he took off his hat and asked me to kindly have a seat.
And when he offered to take me off your hands, you smiled,
Hands out. Hands out. Expectantly.
O mother, o mother, who did you want me to be?
You mixed my blood angrily, angry at me
For your own choices; what did you expect of me?
Years I spent under your thumb, never knowing why
Never understanding the hate, trying to escape fate.
And you smiled through it all.
A Queen upon her throne of misery.
I’m still outrunning you, still reaching, and striving, sweating
Grunting like a skinny bear before winter,
Trying to get that last berry just out of reach.
The one you hold, and squash in your fingers, still smiling.
You may be a mother, but no longer to me.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
But your time is up, and my time has begun.
Keep the torch if you want because my pride is all I need.
Pride in who I am, and who I will become.
My blood is a mosaic river, flowing through my veins
I understand your anger; it comes from denying beauty
The same anger I felt every time you complimented me on my whiteness,
I am white, but you can’t take the Middle East out of me.
- The Brown Sheep