Little Girl, dot dot dot

The little dot girl was confused at the abnormality of her muddy soil. 

The twisting of tongue and vein posed a dilemma: could the turmeric stains on a white shirt 

survive ketchup bottles and kool aid? Mother says,

The arduous ordeal of abstaining from our country is not worth the pepper pricks that start salty seas.

The little girl was shocked at the normalcy of ignorance.

Elephant imprints were common in the jungle of illiteracy;

books spoke of fiery sacrifices —

saris swaying in the wake of the Reaper’s sickle.

The dot fell for the fallacy of forgotten freedom.

The girl stood for the pledge against the terror that looked oddly like her.

Was she a threat to society? He says,

The amalgamation of appropriation cannot be worth more than the purity of perfection.

She was tired of hiding rice in the ripples of voluptuous figures.

Pencils and erasers were no longer the focus: could she bleach the blood of her embarrassment? I say

The dot has been carried away by the pool of swirling red water.

Written years ago, this poem explores the ways identity, color, and belonging blur together — stains that never quite wash out.