I can’t find my box of masks.
thin layers I stretch across my face, safety from viruses invisible, tangible, deadly, their presence marked by absence. who’s in a space, who’s only whispers of memory now.
Baba, I miss you more than words, I’m grateful you moved on before this time of expedited death. you were worth so much more than colonization, than forced migration, than hueless, empty shells of calloused peoples whose understanding of relationship is domination and power over.
I can’t find my box of masks.
I lost it years ago, before knowing what was inside. colorful variations of “it’s fine,” “it’s not a big deal,” “don’t worry about it,” don’t worry about it hurting, I know to tend to my wounds, cut by explanations and excuses.
Baba, thank you for seeing me fully, thank you for the comfort of shared silence when there was so much we never got to speak of. I wonder what words you’d have for survival and strength and joy now. there are so many questions that linger, sit loudly and heavy in the air, I hope to ask you when it’s my time to rest, I think about death, every day. every day, I think about death.
I can’t find my box of masks.
and the tears won’t stop flowing,
and the tears won’t stop flowing,
and the tears won’t stop flowing.
Baba, I didn’t consent into this world, its roots in white supremacy, its proud trunk of hateful ideologies branching out through targeted violence. you taught me about educated ignorance, prepared me for people crafting sophisticated ways to justify death and oppression, souls twisted, contorted into cruelty. my heritage prepared me for “lizzy’s in a box,” and so is our stolen culture trapped in institutions and algorithms, goat yoga and chai tea and henna freckles.
Baba, I am overwhelmed and frightened, angry and hopeful, I love and miss you.
I can’t find the thin layers to stretch across my heart, protection from members of the death cult of “whiteness.”
Baba, I can’t find my box of masks.
