**tw's: night terrors, abuse implied, trauma, religious imagery**
my lips kiss the water &
i am reminded of what my mother
saw me as, laid out on the floor—
red-cheeked, a baby doll
she called me. told me how
i'd never looked so pretty, all
comatose as some stranger prayed
over me. i miss his voice.
i miss the meaning of his voice. my
lips release the water. i
lower the cup from my mouth, remembering
that empty room—just a bed in the middle, & i—a childhood ripped
out, to make room for someone
else's. i never was much of
a child, no baby dolls. i liked
to sleep a lot. once my brother
told us how he heard me screaming
at night. i don't know
what he heard. i was disastrous,
deserving of some pain. even now,
some days the wind scares me &
keeps me up at night. it carries my
mother's voice over the flooding. the next day,
a woman i like cries. i go over
to hug her & am told to sit down.
we eat at the table. we eat, &
the months pass by. it's december
again, & i am never ready. for this,
i am made to feel the day. mother poured the water over me, as a
punishment, her anger
made it a baptism. a name i
like now, but need to keep it hidden,
somehow i
realise it's the protector that's
the most important, not what
is protected. it's the words
of the prayer, not the one whose
mouth is weeping it—it's the ribs spread apart
that are strong, & not the heart—
they're what you feel the
most with your face
pressed against the tiled floor,
cold & warm at the same
time. it's agony
inviting itself back
in.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
