Sometimes, I feel like ripping apart my skin and searching for a reason for why I feel this empty. Maybe my veins are tangled, or something is lodged in my ribcage. Because it feels like something inside of me is missing or broken.
Your daughter is ugly.
She knows loss intimately,
carries whole cities in her belly.
As a child, relatives wouldn’t hold her.
She was splintered wood and sea water.
They said she reminded them of the war.
On her fifteenth birthday you taught her
how to tie her hair like rope
and smoke it over burning frankincense.
You made her gargle rosewater
and while she coughed, said
macaanto girls like you shouldn’t smell
of lonely or empty.
You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island
if her thighs are borders?
What man wants to lay down
and watch the world burn
in his bedroom?
Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things
doesn’t she wear
the world well.”
Maybe I was just a silly little girl when I walked into this. I built everything on him and let him take all of that away. I broke into the very shattered pieces I never imagined I could be. But from that moment on — I turned into the strongest, smartest, and most helpful girl I ever knew or thought I could be.
i have galaxies hidden between my bones and i will love you until the stars burn out.