Paint a flag on your skin

It was the most 
beautiful shade of 
blue,  

the flag that 
was imprinted on her skin, 
right next to her eyes 
that shone brown. 

And then the 
king that had thrown 
a revolution of hate 
decided that he didn't like the fact
that she wore it so beautifully. 

This is the story of 
a people's rebellion. 
Rebellion. 

Once upon a time,

the king went through the kingdom
and ripped it off people, 
one by one, 
when he decided that they didn't fit
with what he thought was right. 

He looked at the people 
whose flags where still slowly
being drawn on, 
who had chosen it out of love 
or come here out of desperation 
and decided that the way that they 
clashed a little with the other colors
against their skin was 
an abomination and he tore 
the newly growing things off. 

He looked at the people
whose flags melded with their 
deep rich skin and decided 
he didn't like how beautiful they looked 
in spite of all the pain it had taken 
for their flags to paint across their skin
and dumped bleach over 
each and every one of them. 

He looked at the people 
that had the rainbow colors mixed in 
with their stars and stripes 
and decided that he liked it better 
when everything was black and white 
and we couldn't see the rainbow, 
when people were hidden 
in secret instead of proud 
and he tried to repaint them 
and force them to let the rainbow 
out of their skin. 

He looked at the people 
that wore their flags in all different 
shapes and sizes and decided
he didn't like that they lived outside
of the stereotypes so he tried 
to force their flags into tiny dresses
so he could reach down them easier. 

But he didn't remember
that the people had a will 
of their own,

that the flag had a will 
of its own, and it was tired
of being drawn on only 
one type of person, 
one type of body, 
the flag was tired of being 
wrapped and used as a means 
to justify anything. 

So when he tried to rip off 
the still growing flags of the 
immigrants and the refugees 
they turned around 
and looked him in the eye 
and shouted him down in all the 
different languages that they 
had grown up with, 
and their flags melded to their skin
a little tighter.

When he dumped bleach 
all over their skin, 
he watched in shock as 
nothing happened, 
because he forgot over the course 
of their lives they had tried 
so many times to wipe their skin off, 
and it never worked, 
because this skin was strong, 
it was beautiful, 
and their flags grew a little
brighter. 

When he tried to make everything
black and white again, 
it didn't work, because what he 
didn't realize was that the rainbow 
weaving through their veins was 
never a choice, 
it defied any that tried to force 
it into their definition of normal, 
and the rainbow and the flag 
weaved a little tighter together.

When he tried to smooth his 
hands over the dresses he'd made, 
he found that the flag had reformed 
itself and was whatever the 
women wanted it to be so he fled 
in terror as they chased after him 
because after decades of smothering 
and choking under expectations, 
the women wanted to be free, 
and the flag wrapped aorund them 
in whatever they wanted it to be. 

And the people crowded around him, 
their flags brighter than ever, 
and they told him that this flag never 
belonged to him, 
never his right to decide who it was worthy 
of or not, 

and the people 

revolted.