I am not one to turn tragedy into poetry.
But may this once,
I will be selfish.
I will turn punches to the gut
into butterflies in my tummy
and I will write
about how ironic it is
that my dad,
giving me this brain
that has its signals crossed,
its white flags
disguised as rally cries,
also gave me this blood.
The one that pumps through my veins
and refuses to move forward,
to let me let go.
That my dad,
who gave me this home,
and who gave me this world
and then turned it into a war zone
gave me a body like a tree,
rooted, etched into by lovers hands
and blood like war -
violent, stubborn, refusing.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 11:19 AM UTC
I am not one to turn tragedy into poetry.
But may this once,
I will be selfish.
I will turn punches to the gut
into butterflies in my tummy
and I will write
about how ironic it is
that my dad,
giving me this brain
that has its signals crossed,
its white flags
disguised as rally cries,
also gave me this blood.
The one that pumps through my veins
and refuses to move forward,
to let me let go.
That my dad,
who gave me this home,
and who gave me this world
and then turned it into a war zone
gave me a body like a tree,
rooted, etched into by lovers hands
and blood like war -
violent, stubborn, refusing.
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