I cross 56 kilometers now and then to sit in front of the image that speaks "La Resistencia" and let the hue of it pinch my lung. Today, I want red to sin my face and scream into me, "This country is alive." but I know it is doused in the fire of vicious man spitting on the sideways, and gazing at women with the eye of a scanner. Slit my iris, and you will see how I bleed in disgust. Yet another news, a rant, and an article writes about 'REVOLUTION' but I will say, "Bite your tongue two times before spelling REVOLUTION, for it comes with the bloodbath and not flower-strewn beds". Time and again, we are played like a a pawn in a chessboard, we scream "Don't eat us," but when was ever the king butchered in this game of power? Of being tread on by society as if our belly is a foreign land. Of them giving us hope of touching the sky and then smashing us directly in the ground, is nothing but what we are habituated with. Catastrophe will kiss their feet on doomsday for all the judgment they vomit on us sitting at the high-held chairs. 'Resistance,' my bosom shouts in a compartment full of touches that makes my body shiver in havoc. My land is barren yelps of helplessness but this time, the mask of mine would kick every hand that makes me want to evaporate my existence. It is time for all the fallacy that my etiquette drank in breakfast shall be puked on the mouth of hanging tapestries latching my feet. I haven't slept peacefully for so long, I keep folding myself in the blanket until my existence diminishes like the planet, Pluto. And I plan not to until the time when women like me would roam on the countryside with flowers blooming from our head and not wrath. - 'La Resistencia,' if not us, then who would save us from this rubble of destruction?