I fear the man who shakes my hand,
Cold fingers, hazed eyes—his smile, a demand for my demise.
They say: Be grateful. This is success, claim your prize.
But every nod of approval comes laced with compromise.

Crucified for daring to rise,
Villainized by those hollow eyes,
Dismissed with, “Only because they’re marginalized.”

I do not seek to be prized,
nor to sit among the colonized.
Take me instead to an open field,
where I may yield—

I am the prize,
heroic, whole, and alive.
I stand with those who demand no sacrifice.