The Dust

Pick me up off the ground

And really take a look at me.

Dust me off and really

Really take a look at me.

I’m not the dust that covers me when I’m

Thrown on the ground,

Kicked to the curb,

Hit by a car...

Rather, I’m what lies beneath.

Sometimes the dust may fill my cracks,

But that doesn’t make it part of me.

Clean out my wounds and help me heal,

Really see what each crevice in my skin spells out.

The dust is not my story.

The dust is a made-up story from people who’d like to think they know me.

The dust is what you see.

The dust is not me.

I am me.

The dust is my story according to them,

But they haven’t walked a mile in my shoes–

Who are they to tell my story?

They think they know me, and so do you

Because you heard about me from them.

You’re wrong.

They’re wrong.

All of you— wrong.

And I’ll bet you don’t like that—

Being told you’re wrong,

Being called out on your shit...

But it’s the truth.

I’m not the dust they cover me with and stuff in my wounds to try and infect them.

I am flesh,

And blood,

And wounds,

And a mind that no one else can truly speak for.

You should say the same of yourself.

You’re just as unique as I,

But in many ways the same.

Both human and imperfect,

Each with our different history,

Different sets of skills,

And different opinions.

So you see why you or them cannot tell my story

Unless it comes from me,

As I cannot tell yours

Unless it comes from you.