what did you expect?

You are the wrong colour.  You grin too much
and when your teeth are fiercely cavitied, filled up
with rot, almost black almost full of everything and
I want to compress you. I want to press you down (all
carbon anyway) to some diamond point and sell you
on the black market.  I want to imagine that each person
is worth the value of their carbon-constituent diamond and
that maybe even diamond mines are just great graveyards and
battlefields and piles of wealth-from-slaughter.  I want to
imagine that there are only blood diamonds.

You are the wrong colour and you talk too much and your
ears are whistling with the hollows of your skull and when
tomorrow talks to you, tells you your time and touches your tongue
with pretty words you are just a conch shell, you are just the
sounds of the ocean formed from a pretty hollow shape, you
are just stutters and echoes, vibrations and reflections, blusters
boiled and shuffled into seeming sense.

You are the wrong colour with your tin skin, your mottle, your
scab-calico, and you track me with your automaton eyes in feedback
loops that make me stutter and make me limp and hurt me in the teeth
like ice cubes or ice picks and you remind me of fondue but a horrible
giants fondue with platelets packing into rafts and dotting darker each
terrible dip of bone bread and I do not imagine you with your
horrible empty skull and your stupid smile and your left handedness.  I know
you are left handed because you are not me and I am not left handed and
I know that.