maybe if you didn't
walk with your head hung so low
fixed on the feet of people you know
leaving as if you had somewhere to go
wrapping your arms
around your chest
constantly worrying
if your skin shows
they would-

look at you the way
they look at them
if you would try
include you in
their exclusive lives
if you would try

maybe i
walk with my head so low
because i'm carrying their burdens
on my back
gazing at the ground
because my eyes are tired
of looking for faults
in myself
running
from the silence
in between sentences
that i tried to fill
with my appearance
i will-

leave my nest bed head
the way i had it
when i woke
be heard
without shouting words
that i spoke
love my body
the way it was made
all curves and marks
that wrap around my waist
unapologetically carry the bags
under the eyes
on my face
i will-

continue to speak love
from my unfilled chapped lips
i'm not trying

i'm living.

On Sunday mornings,
my father likes to leave for
church before he can see me
just getting home.
Cigarettes in the back pocket
of yesterday's jeans and another
strangers' fingerprints littered
across my body.
Do you pray for my soul, father?
While you're on your knees
at the pew, do you think about
the tears in the knees of my jeans?
Do you ask God why he has
burdened you with a
daughter like me?
The blank pages of the bible
you clutch will not save you
and my Holy Water cocktail
will not save me.