Identity.

Fragility

Is

Not knowing

Who I am.

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know where the cement was mixed and Who formed the

Bricks

That were laid

To create the home that I inhibit

All that remains is dust

Under the foundation

Cracked windows

And Lost souls.

Something so

Strong

Yet so

Fragile.

I don’t know who I am.

I don't know who planted the seeds

Within me.

I can’t find my roots—

Buried under the soil

Of plantations

Or discarded into the seas.

I don’t know who I am.

I am a concoction

Of the ancestors that I will

Never know the names of.

I don’t know who I am.

I am a

Multilingual,

Caramel-coloured,

Curly-headed girl with no past,

Only that of my parents

Where I received my life's blood and namesake—

Whose seeds were reaped and sowed

On an island

Filled with people like me

I do not know who I am.

Every part of me

Is malleable,

formed by post-colonial structures and capitalists

That rule the world and leave people like me

In the dark

With the truth that they are afraid to face themselves. I don’t know who I am, but I can tell you who I will become.