I am frozen,
while you troll my landscape of silence
for admiration.

I am muted,
while you recycle a history of privilege
for agreement.

Like a lover indulged
you are ignorant of the layer that shields us.

I muster to jockey this,
the silent excuse repeated,
the wall between experience

Blame,
that tragic luxury,
that preservative
in white skin
erupts
unknowingly.

I muster to erase this,
the silent excuse repeated,
the wall between experience

Access,
that tragic luxury,
that preservative
in white skin
erupts
unknowingly.

I am looted,
while your scorched mouth flows
with nooses.

I manage to split from this,
the silent excuse repeated,
the wall between experience

Thing is, I just don't feel finished.

Tess. Lotta is a writer and musician living in Los Angeles. She writes, "Currently, I still brag to annoying levels about graduating from Antioch Seattle in 2003, and feel equally psyched to be in the MA in English program at California State University Dominguez Hills. Summer projects include a bookkeeping job, a solo recording project, revising a collection of poems, and making deadlines with freelance work. I just finished Graceland by Chris Abani and just opened Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi.