There you sit, all covered in gold,
Pretending to be brass.
So uncomfortable with the privilege you have
that you would steal the precious protections of those you imitate.
Your identification with those you know your privilege shadows,
justifying the fears you carry.
The anger of the small child within, who has not received the gifts promised,
flaying out at those you can, the mother, the servant, the commoner.
Others cheer you, labelling themselves “they”,
not to change the world, but to maintain the status quo.
They mock those who would support you, would confront your oppressor,
Those who tell us change cannot be radical, cannot challenge those who benefit most,
ignoring how radical dehumanization actually is.
All is not lost.
We can all be who we are, gold and all,
using our privilege not to deny the humanity of others,
but to discover our own.
What it means to be vulnerable but free.