i is for ism

There were years gone by questioning nothing. Not even all the dirty ugly predicated isms in plain sight.

Kids who grow up in any kinda consistent environment, no matter the level of dysfunction, ascribe their acceptance upon it. As did i.

Then came barreling upon me, an expansiveness i had never known. I wanted to stay tight. Small. To know your name when i saw you in the streets. For you to know mine.

To keep our hard earned reps.
Our shared histories.

The disturbance in my atmosphere saw me smaller, lesser known, more fearful, lesser understood anymore.

I could hide in the laundry bed of a thousand other passerbys. No one but my mom might miss me.

I might not even miss me, myself.

For who was i formed out of icy isms in a blind microcosmic state of purified disaster?

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