i wore my mother's skin as if my organ were designed by her divinity.
i speak the same tone as her,
face shaped after her,
hands clean from not repeating my father's history, raised by her,
and i convened bits of me to be her daughter.
yet my fingertips are copycats of my father's handwriting.
his blood is the shade of my veins,
and we both have frames before our eyelids.
our tongue both speaks for what is untrue,
sick sight from a polluted vow of two,
i became his left eye and acquired an akin point of view.
I am both my father's pink, soft, covered with stinky-blood brain,
and
mother's cherry-red, malevolent, cracked heart.
how does it feel to be a half-formed girl?
it feels godly.
