Not Enough

Everytime I need to buy a pack of gum, I take a handful of old, dead white men's faces out of my pockets. I count their dull eyes, I multiple in my head by their twisted ideologies. I question if this dollar fifty cent pack of gum will stop me one day. If a health care provider will look me in the face and say "sorry, sweatheart, but you're just one old, dead white man's face too short.''

This poem is about: 
My country


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