Bloodstained

I woke up today, bloodstained. 
My skin clean yet sorely tainted.
A hue marked long before I arrived.
A visceral feeling that will take eons to subside.
 

Pained, I pull myself into the mirror,
something I do to always make sure.
“When did it start?” Past traumas foretells.
The more I read, the more I choke.
It stings this morning. I’m not feeling well.
 

“Go on with your day.
You need to have your say.”
Groggy and tired and weak and vulnerable
“Show the unstained
just how your people are stable.”
 

A different world, I find the escape.
 

With texts that tell me theoretical remedies,
But the rivers are long polluted by falsities.
I plunge towards that distant respite.
My skin searing of agonizing sensations,
manifest a piercing light.
 

“Cause what is blood,
if not pumped-up cortisol energy.
Of valued history, liberty, and vitality.
And what of stains,
With its beautiful colorful swatches
brimming of laughter, enjoying the splotches.
 

We realize united with a roaring voice
With a symphonic melody, we rejoice.
Away from the unstained’s destiny
Elated on our dreams, we are free!”
 

paper-cut bled,
I told myself in the mirror.
All Eyes Only at the Other.

This piece is about my internal battle of feeling othered. Being bloodstained refers to the generational scarring of this othering that lingers in my day-to-day. Though it can refer to my skin and race, othering can also be tied to queerness and other minority identities. This also delves into my Sociology education at the University, where I learned about the sociological forces that constructed this lingering agony. Although I was enlightened by these theories, they made the pain sear further as I learned about both the large and the everyday atrocities afflicting my communities. Furthermore, my pain deepend when I realize those who dominante the social hierarchy cannot share my feelings. At the same time, I've also learned about the power and joy that thinkers, artists, and protestors have to disrupt these repressive mentalities as they stand proud by their identities. It fills me with hope for this utopian horizon that we are constantly building towards. However, I am pulled back into this present pain of who I am when I can no longer find escapism through hope and find myself back into the aching reality.

The views, thoughts and opinions expressed in this blog are the author’s only and do not reflect an official position of the University of Minnesota, the Human Rights Program, or the College of Liberal Arts. As an institution of higher education that values and promotes free speech, civil discourse, and human rights, we welcome a variety of perspectives and opinions from our student contributors that are consistent with these values.