Bad blood

 

The problem is in my blood.

I was born with it.

It keeps surging through my veins making them hate me for it.

Somehow, it makes me inferior to them like some disease for which there is no cure.

But they are always trying to find a cure anyway.

We wear stars on our chests or backs

We see notices of doom on our doors.

We go to ghettos to keep from spreading what we have to people who cannot catch it.

They try to starve it out of us, work it out of us, beat it out of us, when they know like we know it is something in our blood.

So they spill that, too, herding into this place where we might be kept safe from hurting anyone, stealing away the weakest of us so as to leave the rest of us for work.

And still that is not enough, sweat and tears unable to rid us of this thing that stirs in our blood.

And I think as I take this razor. If I let out all the bad blood will they finally let me live?