This culture is sand, rubbing us raw.
Amputating the imperfect pieces;
Dislocation from ourselves.
Jumping at the first signs of puberty,
Pulling us in slowly and securely.
Suddenly we’re not anything but used coffee grains.
Strained and soaking.
We stand- eroded souls from constant sand,
Amputated of our imperfections,
Strained of our personalities.