Wrinkled and rolled up and
tied with a purple ribbon
was the map of my mind,
with arrows and dotted lines
and an x that marks the spot
of a treasure chest that holds
a gold crown made of paper
worn on my 6th birthday.
mountains formed by my
father's hands and birds
that sang his words
directing me to be the
best I could possibly be
a young woman, a daughter,
a sister, a minority.
roads that lead to my dreams
from places I want to go
to the places I've been,
libraries full of photo albums
of the people I love,
the people I thought I needed
and the people I have yet to rip apart,
for each one a callus to keep me numb.
the books I've read stacked into buildings
cemented with long words and bricks
shaped by conflicts that taught me
that the phrase "I love you"
can also be used against you.