Age of hate. The color of our skin. Intolerance.
We all pulse red. You shoot me, I bleed the same. My God. My soul. Different and yet not at all. It's not the color, the direction of the prayers, the partner in my bedroom.
We are one people. Two eyes, two feet. Two hands to hold or to steal life.
It's a choice, this thing. This monster of the psyche. That grows with age, inhales the world and spins it, spitting it out as a fallacy. Where humans are divided by kind. Categorized like the grocery store. The black bags kicked to the corner, to be put out with the morning trash.