Act of Sustaining

And this terrible obsession with being excluded has made my skin invisible. Things are so visible. That my name is a slap in the face to others. Perhaps a blasphemy. And I don't allow them to name or rename God as the god of the dispossessed, the forgotten. And I can't define myself as poor as they do, because not even dust can contain me, and the one who created me doesn't know what I mean. And the rain can't cover the body that doesn't exist, nor shape its headboard as others do. So much so, that death ignores my hand at birth. Because we are part of the invisible, the dispossessed, the forgotten. Just like you, and that horrible obsession with hating ourselves. I devour myself in the need for existence