• Natasha Hemraze


Updated: Sep 11



Not knowing

Who I am.

I don’t know who I am.

I don’t know where the cement was mixed and Who formed the


That were laid

To create the home that I inhibit

All that remains is dust

Under the foundation

Cracked windows

And Lost souls.

Something so


Yet so


I don’t know who I am.

I don't know who planted the seeds

Within me.

I can’t find my roots—

Buried under the soil

Of plantations

Or discarded into the seas.

I don’t know who I am.

I am a concoction

Of the ancestors that I will

Never know the names of.

I don’t know who I am.

I am a



Curly-headed girl with no past,

Only that of my parents

Where I received my life's blood and namesake—

Whose seeds were reaped and sowed

On an island

Filled with people like me

I do not know who I am.

Every part of me

Is malleable,

formed by post-colonial structures and capitalists

That rule the world and leave people like me

In the dark

With the truth that they are afraid to face themselves. I don’t know who I am, but I can tell you who I will become.

101 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Many are those who, straining to be heard above the throbbing dub of the local coffee shop, insist that they work better with music, and that, despite the echoing strain to which they would on other o

A while ago, in the back of a bar in Madrid, a friend once asked me which, out of all of God’s creatures who ever walked this earth, I pitied most. My answer, spoken over an overpriced cocktail slick