When I was a little girl,
My mother called me her little angel,
In her eyes, I was a glorious gift given to her by the heavens.
When I was a little girl,
My father told me he had wanted a son.
But when I was born,
He said he would love me like no other one.
But when I was a little girl,
I remember looking into the cracking mirror glass.
An array of imperfections arranged as constellations between my blinded eyes,
Held by the frames of an icy plexiglass, a man-made design.
Around this weighted figure of squishy cheeks, marred skin, and lumpy sacks of fat,
Oh able-bodied, able soul, but not quite matching perfection as societies’ bells toll,
A haunting reminder that I’ll never see clearly,
Beyond the fragile lines of my inherited class…task.
Mother, lovely mother
You told me I was your little angel.
Could you tell me then…why did you teach me “silence” instead of “freedom in speech”?
Why did you tell me, feverishly “keep your feelings locked and bottled in your heart”?
And throw away the ivory key, let it drown with misery!
Listen, don’t speak. Silence.
Father, dearest father,
Why do you say I’m not strong?
That I’m physically incapable of flying beyond, what you label as, my wrongs?
Why do you constantly, repeatedly, oh even almost feverishly, point out my physical imperfections and parade my mental scars?
When you said I was your…little girl.
Hide hide behind the chanting cry, “I want you to be happy, healthy, and live a normal life”.
News flash, I’m not normal.
Oh who broke you?
I’m picking up the shattered glass reflections within my grasp,
wondering who fractured the rosy tint that all children have.
What made a little girl give up on love and believe she lacked the courage to be strong?
When she’s proven herself, knees on the ground, housework-homework-work, work
What cursed a little boy from living his whispered dreams and live through others he so deemed worthy?
Burden by love, burden by birth, burden by lack of love, of worth
Calculating, fracturing, shattering, losing pride because who needs something so basic when you’re providing for a life?
Saying merely “society” does not satisfy the burning hunger in my twisted tissue of a heart,
Of the somber injustice within my drowning soul,
For how can I strive when I know how you’ve cry, not so long ago?
As the shattered mirror continues to crack in front of my washed out expression,
I wonder, will I ever piece together my imperfections?
Be able to walk away from the ‘me’ of society’s diction, or my parent’s personal reflection.
Really, THAT is the question.
And as the gates of yesterday’s truths draw to a close, the question continues to haunt me to this moment.
Daily Muses of a Pensive Poet 