Your brown skin, tainted;
scabs falling on the floor,
leaving a trail
for further inspection.
Blood dripping
on, the dirt of innocence.
Your ankles
bruised, branded,
shackled with uncertainty.
Stuck
in a web of insecurities;
with a high guard,
throwing straight punches,
fighting your demons,
believing that you
are dead inside.
Pieces of your flesh
bitten off by boys
confined to adult bodies.
As you move forward
dragging your bare feet,
with each crawl,
it is obvious
that you are on your last breath.
You are not
going to make it.
As you reach the center of the temple
defeated,
spreading your prophetic wings,
placing your gift on the altar.
As you gasp for air
I hear the yearning of your heart.
Smiling
as you transcend onto heaven
as a Salvadoran Goddess—
a title well deserved.