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by: jocelyn lemus


the sensation of being in a box full of polluted air killing the soft lungs inside me. 

my hands full of wet blisters peeling, como las naranjas frescas de un árbol.

the sensation of fire dripping from my forehead, oh no! that is just sweat.

my back aching from the hunches, nunca como el dolor de una madre dando luz.

the sensation of what we call “pain” eating at our flesh like if there was no tomorrow. 

my family, they are who i dig floors for, los que me hacen luchar para seguir.

the feeling of chemicals and oils penetrating my dry skin.

my life is not the one i asked for, pero nunca reniego por lo que Dios me dio.

the world where i cannot be myself without being judge.

cuéntame lo que te hace seguir, y yo te hablo más con detalles.


let me be your immigrant.

let me penetrate my dark and dry feet into the dirt of “your” land.

let me carve my initials on your brown wooden porch.

let me scare you with the dark color of my skin.

let me wear my hoodie while walking down your street.

let me look at you with my bare eyes, just to scare you away.


i’ll let you assume the worst of me.

i’ll let the world paint me an image of myself.

let me be your favorite American.

let me wear your colors.

let me bleach my skin.

let me eat your apple pies.

let me breathe. 


i am your American now.