Looking thorough a mirror
rambling on my hair
I pluck one or two
moments of history.
Dead,
white stems and white roots,
out of my existence.
I take them in my palm
probe with curious eyes;
rummaging through my heredity,
I feel awkward
to own them,
their genes and their words.
Hoarding up courage,
wind-filled-lungs,
I blow them hard
to the direction of
my choice.
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