When I see their names, even when they’re not theirs; the knowledge of their separated accents speaking their out of touch bile, designed to pander to and provoke- makes my blood ferocious, burning veins as it speeds from my racing heart.

Anger pushing life around, stale eyes wishing I didn’t have to see what they spew.

But they’re masters at making themselves seen and making their voices heard, without letting us ever hear what they mean.

Because the meaning isn’t for us, it’s against us.

So when we stand together, mimicking solidarity and tricking our morals to think that what we do matters, always remember they will always be there.

And there is the problem.

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