The Dichotomy of Disaster

How did we become monsters? How did being the bi-product of colonialism turn us on ourselves? We are never human enough to consider our complexities. We only account the acceptable accomplishments. We use harm to get there. Then, we don't really want to fix anything. We only want to be classified away from it.

Monsters are born in disaster. They don't choose how they become. They are reacting to the life they are born into. Some monsters are eloquent. Some are talented. Some look just like you and me. The word monster separates. It sounds disgusting. It sounds worthless. Same as Black. Same as other. 

I am a pretty monster. I am light enough to bare the mantle that less melanin carries. The access it garners. I am the salve that turns white discomfort into temporary acceptance. I am not a house Nigga. I'm fucking and loving field hands, when nobody is looking. I know they are hurting. They hurt me, too.

Death doesn't write it's own epitaph. He leaves life to do that. He leaves us funeral rites. He lets us wrestle with the Monsters we've become. Monsters so consumed with the hierarchy of compassion we fail to see the monsters in ourselves.

None of us is as crafted as the lies we tell ourselves. The lies we show the world. We hide behind comparison. We compete for scraps of insecurity. We expect praise. 

The greatest disaster is that we have reduced living to either side of the spectrum. We refuse to ride the pendulum that swings in between. Monsters don't live on the outskirts. They live right next door.

To be human is to see the whole monster. To be a monster is to see the whole human.