Useless Artifacts

I am a collection of memories that I will never remember,

of stories that are not mine to tell,

of languages whose grammar I have not mastered,

of vibrant hues that do not present themselves upon my face.

I am clay,

sculpted by the melted fragments of terracotta pots

that were dug up among ruins

brushed clean

and discarded

as useless artifacts.

I bleed vermillion—spilled murders from the oldest empires

and cry injustices that were never done unto me.

When I trespass on lands that were mine long ago

my fingers ache

with the places on my body

that were torn.

I have no use for museums

because the sterile white walls

that imprison stories

are painted with explanations

while the brushed and cleaned

discarded

useless artifacts scream

I do not belong here.