The cuts you make on my back,
the stripes you burn into my skin,
the rift you tear open in the Atlantic ocean,
as you pull me away from my kin,
from my captors,
from my memories and gods and demons,
they will undo us both.
My blood is now on your hands, splashed across clean linen.
My cells, splintered and traumatized by the fury of your whip, are now stowaway communities hiding in the suburban gloss of your presumably white body.
Gestating in your purity.
Every time you hit me, you will harden up or you will break down.
In other words, even you won’t remain the same. Even you are torn apart.
So don’t call this a Conquest. Your victory is not total.
My defeat is not barren.
And we both are not finished yet.