I ask myself
I ask myself whether the color of my skin determines my worth
I ask myself if the love language doesn’t roll off my tongue,
Am I worth the conversation
I ask myself,
I ask myself,
Does that state of nepantla even exist? I mean,
I don’t feel worthy of either side or even in between the lines
Not enough to lay between the lines
How do I explain that when I cry, tears of Texcoco fall from my eyes?
Or the husk of the corn speaks to me
Or that when my feet feel the ground I feel the roots trying to tie me down to its existence
Or when I see a creature of the land I know its past
I ask myself, when will I be enough?
Enough to not only fall under one category in a box
Enough to be deemed a living human roaming stolen land
I ask myself
because I am a woman does it determine my worth
Does my body mean more than what it’s supposed to be
More than a childbearing home
More than a domestic servant
I ask myself, What sets these ideas?
The idea that
Because of who I am
determines how I am
Scratch that idea
I ask myself again