Why the Hate?
I ask a stranger how s/he was born?
From a mother’s womb they say.
Just like I once was.
So why the hate?
I ask a baby what religion is.
To the best of my ability to decipher baby talk,
s/he appears not to know.
Just like when I was a baby,
blissfully unaware of grown-up talk.
So why the hate?
I ask a stranger how s/he communicates?
With a tongue just like mine, they say.
The birthplace of every language, I think.
So why the hate?
I once spilled paint on my arm.
A palette of various colors made habitats on my skin
before leaving during my next shower.
Yet my heart, personality & identity
remained the same throughout.
So why the hate?
I try to form a collective hypothesis of my conversations:
We’re all born the same way & die someday.
Skin color & religion…
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