My parents tried raising me with roots of compassion

Growing me as one who would grow others.

There were mistaken, in their treatment,

Feeding me unfiltered water

Polluted by the hate infecting it.

I am left without a birthright

Other than the dormant generational diseases

That will infect my later life.

With no birthright out of spite I crafted my own,

Perhaps a pillow made of the feathers from peoples hushed heartbeats and red cheeks,

Or a guitar out of the strings from the unfurled words we hum to one another.

I left my arms open for what I wish would be lightweight and widespread,

But Icarus never reached the sun.

Instead met with weapons forged from the malice they drank,

Thrust in my back to quell any compassion my roots contained.

Leaving me huddled like Atlas, each word building upon the weight they create.

My sister owns the same nothingness of our birthright,

She crafted her own with the tools whose instructions she passed down to me.

And yet, there is no stone on her back,

No weight bringing her down,

No dependence on the fresh air of fire’s smoke.

The one that stokes my heart and feeds my brain.

I am thankful that she is not postured like Atlas,

And that she can see the same vision without my bloodshot eyes.

I am blind to what she sees, for which reason is unknown.

She speaks of a place where Atlas is unheard of,

Where fresh air does not come from the smoke of fires,

Where embers linger on the fingertips and hands that warm the held,

Instead of riding on the wind of loud voices,

Burning the ears of those that hear,

She speaks of our birthright being what we built out of the void

Rather than the nothingness it sought to give.

And when my sister speaks, I find myself standing a little taller,

The boulder weighing a little lighter,

My roots digging a little deeper,

And when my sister speaks, I find myself looking a little further,

Visualizing what could become of our birthright.