Buckwheat

By now you've probably
archived all your anger
into this permanent state,
where you only think of
me in red and black, and
speak of me with sharp
bitterness that leaves the
taste of tar behind in your
mouth. It gurgles in the
pit of your stomach, and
thumps in the middle of
your chest, coursing
though your ventricles,
to every extremity.
With every movement
you are trained to only
hate me, conditioned and
taught that there is nothing
worthy in me, nothing
noble that would make
me guiltless, nothing
beautiful that would make
me innocent, and you
eat up this instruction as
if you sincerely want to
believe it. As if you'd rather
believe these distortions,
than the truth.

By now, I bet when people
ask you if you have a sister,
you say "no".