They put make up on her.
Who you may ask.

Ils ont mit du maquillage sur elle.
Qui, demandes-tu?

I’m talking about the planners, the renovators.
They put make up on her. My home is what I mean by her. The building where I have spent 95% of what I now refer to as my conscious life.
I feel it’s a ploy to attract investors, to attract the rich, to attract money and prestige.
A ploy with a voice like one of our politicians who make empty promises to simply get elected.
« Hel-lo, I-am-here-to-promise-you-so-and-so. »
« Why? »
« Be-cause, I-care. »
They call it a renovation, perhaps a ‘renouvellement.’
Now they have hidden the external wounds that tell stories of many struggles and few victories.

We live there, have lived there, and will continue to live there. That is, if permitted.
We are the ones who carry stories. We are the ones who inflict pain and have had pain inflicted upon us.
We are the fighters, the protecters, the by-standers.
We are the listeners, the see-ers, and the gossipers. We have fought the battles and continue to fight.

We are families. We are individuals. We live behind the uniform dark green doors.
Over the course of each battle there have been scars left inside the buildings as well as outside.

The new windows, new balconies, new backyard, new everything presents a new beginning. The open wounds covered up, never mended. A new beginning that doesn’t include us. A new beginning that neglects the historic warriors.



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