The anger in me is not a scream; it is a silence that has finally found its weight. It is a dense, pulsating thing that refuses the grace of a poem. To write a poem is to organize, and my anger will not be organized. It sits. It simply sits in the corner of my heart like a dark guest who has no intention of leaving, watching with wide, unblinking eyes as my words scramble to muffle their own noise so they do not deafen me.

How can one speak of “one human race”? To say those words is to taste a lie that has no salt. I see the sun, that great eye in the sky, and it is no longer yellow; it is bloodied, stained by the very humans who claim a shared pulse while they spill the life of the innocent into the dust. My anger does not argue with them. It merely spits. It spits in the face of such effortless blindness.

©️Beatriz Esmer