How can I be open without restrictions?
A door that never closes
a breeze allowed to pass by
and through your insides
like you are a ghost within this home.
Speaking words into the sky
to materialize the trials and tribulations
of what you’ve lived
and how your body
is more like diamonds
than it is permeable sheets
of paper because your body refuses
to be torn so easily by words
actions, dictating your heart
to beat like that of a rabbit
to escape your abuser’s words
their mentality to crack your skull
then resurrect you to repeat the process
before your mind can react
to the pain spreading like blooms
blossoming upon your body bruises
like the various colors of the rainbow
you have denied, and maybe that’s why
they choose to harm your body
in ways that don’t color your skin
as much as they metaphorically
twist your body into a contortionists
cartoon rendering of rubber limbs
trying to grasp at what they said
to throw the words back at them
so they can see the harm of their foul.
Open means breaking
it means binding my body
so close to their words that I have
no way of protecting myself
shedding diamond for the epidermis
that efficiently cuts and I just can’t
live that way. I was a sensitive child
it was never a compliment but always a crux.
It was a cross for me to bear
weight distributed over shoulders
too broad to be made for a woman
I don’t look weak,
then why do people hunt me
with callous words and those
I love end up hurting me the most?
My mother asks me what I’m doing,
responds that I don’t have a life
it isn’t a question but rather her answer
to a question, she keeps repeating,
answering before I can take a breath.
I would never allow anyone
to hurt me as she does,
people say she’s your mother,
giving you flesh and blood
a pulse to pump in your chest
a heart weakened by a hereditary
glitch I took from my father’s family
even that fact is an argument
she tries to win, even though
winning is still failing.
How do I become open
when anything open is broken
and the pieces I pick up
aren’t so easy to glue
or bind together like last time
did you try to break me?
I would never let a person
shatter my insides to pieces
quite like my mother does
and even though she created me
out of clay and a borrowed rib
from my father, this doesn’t mean
she lays claim to who I am,
how I live, or the love I choose
to give to those limited few
who deserve it in my lifetime.
How do I stop allowing someone
to open my door inside
when they keep vandalizing me
as if my insides don’t need
the same care as my outside skin?
I choose to hit mute
when she speaks finding that
the sensitive girl in me
is still hiding in the closet
waiting for her mother to see her
and hurt her for how little
she’s loved, her existence
a crutch that I will not
bear my weight upon it
any more and the open door
is now closed to heal
the past crimes that you
denied were real,
but dear mother,
they are as real as your anger,
your curiosity, your sentiments
and I am not the clay
you made, and that is
not such a terrible thing
to realize when
these indentions were mine
for the prevention
of another crime to my skin,
no, mother, I will not let you in.
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