Where I’m From
I come from a place where the walls
are very tall
and the doors shut tight.
From gilded grandfather clocks,
church on Sundays;
crimson red markings
and tears from ballet.
I am from pressed flowers
and oozing black ink,
whose infant footprints
carved from my still hardening mind,
I am from books and of Hemmingway,
of invisible fractures and due power plays.
I’m from midnight rain,
unspoken pain,
– the ugly weeds in the garden –
always changing,
always the goddamn same.
I'm from tiled bathroom floors,
each lemon square wetted, cracked;
never have I cried at funerals.
I’m from Phacelias and Aquilegias,
Infertile soil and thorn blankets
the last petal to fall
–stubbornly clinging–
From the leg I broke
a child-sized wheelchair (a year spent fragile);
I taught myself to walk again.
the scar above my left eye
from when I bled out onto the pavement.
I’m not from; I am.
Of dancing, ultrasounds,
windswept hair and sand coloured skin
A heart that fought to continue beating–
I am unapologetic.
My skin is a patchwork of stitches,
scars bruises and blemishes,
they run up and down and across my body
snaking streams of water
beautiful, brave,
A thousand cuts that have not killed me.
- girl and her pencil
YOU ARE READING
midnight rain | ₐ bₒₒₖ ₒf ₚₒₑₘₛ
Poesía"i try so hard to help other people because i have no idea how to help myself" things will get better let beautiful, painful flowers grow from the places where you wept
