Noodles and Chips

I wrote this poem when I was thirteen, and came across it while looking through my old journals. 

His face is a foreign country,

His eyes are two different hemispheres,

He’s an alien from two worlds,

Being, yet never belonging,

And when they hit him that day,

His scars trickled with blood,

British blood- no doubt,

Atop skin made in China,

And it stayed, in his eyes, in his skin, in his name,

Noodles and chips,

A solar eclipse,

of nationality versus ethnicity,

A constant battle

to the death

Of one.

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