We are label makers.

We punch our fingers onto keys,

listen to our opinion's declaration,

peel back the paper,

and stick our words onto the forheads

of unsuspecting victims.


Shut up, woman.

 Go back to Mexico, alien.

  Do my homework, California roll.


We smear labels onto

entire peoples and turn our head

when a voice points out our evil.

Xenophobia wraps its devilish

claws around entire nations.

But we won't notice,

because we'll be making labels.


F***ing Muslims, stupid terrorists.

 Wearing that outfit? She was asking for it.

  This party is so gay.

    I hate immigrants. They don't even speak English.


Even the ones who succeed

in assimilating will be covered.

Just peel them off, we could say.

But the glue tears away skin,

and the marks heal slowly. So for now,

we'll just cover the scars with more labels.


Work harder, you pussy!

 You're a failure now, and you'll be a failure for the rest of

  your pathetic little life

   because you're a trouble-maker! 


Go kill yourself, fat bitch.



Slurs, stigmas, discrimination.

We can continue on our path,

shoving groups and individuals into cabinets,

beating out label after label.

But sooner or later, we'll see our own labels,

and be ever so ashamed of what we've become.


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