Feb 2011
I hold my pots and pans
my spices and fruits
lay in the kitchen like a dead spirit
hold up my most prized dish
and concur your presence with my
deep curve and my curious woman
is that what I was made for
I ask you silently with desperate eyes
hearing my mothers whispers
be tidy and clean, and gentle in your walk
you are girl they say
you are a girl
and one day if done right
you shall grow up to flourish into an endless woman
a woman of stature and grace
but I cried when I was young and I was told that it was not okay
and here I am left to blame for the fact that my skin is not smooth
It is not that I have scars everywhere
I myself am a wound
I myself am a scar
keeps your hands closed, fingers beautifully hidden beneath
your delicate pale palms
and some day my child they said
the right person will hold them
but my hands have ran over many shades of skin
I have touched much pain
my hands
my hands
touched life
and we all know where those places can be
bright and glorious
dark and terrifying
and sometimes I believe them
maybe if I would have hid my hands
maybe if I would have kept that noble innocence
I would have lived longer
perhaps had the right person hold them
my mother told me, my beautiful daughter
still young and naive
pure and childlike
when you walk bow that gentle neck of yours
don't let your newborn eyes become harshly polluted
I remember those words now when I cry
and these tears are not pure, they are not salty and white
but drops of debris and dirt
as bitter as gall
keep your body a temple sacred and known only to you
the deepest curiosity lies in the mystery engraved in the
comely body of a woman who keeps herself a mystery
standing beautiful like a blue rose between red ones
in solitude
gracefully content
and me, now
If I was a flower would be immersed in a euphoria of colors
drenched in the mixing of my body with others
scared by their skin
loved by their hands
and possessed in touch by touch
where do I go
mother, how do I ease myself of these monstrosities
how do I learn how to hold myself again without feeling guilty
my spices and fruits
lay in the kitchen like a dead spirit
hold up my most prized dish
and concur your presence with my
deep curve and my curious woman
is that what I was made for
I ask you silently with desperate eyes
hearing my mothers whispers
be tidy and clean, and gentle in your walk
you are girl they say
you are a girl
and one day if done right
you shall grow up to flourish into an endless woman
a woman of stature and grace
but I cried when I was young and I was told that it was not okay
and here I am left to blame for the fact that my skin is not smooth
It is not that I have scars everywhere
I myself am a wound
I myself am a scar
keeps your hands closed, fingers beautifully hidden beneath
your delicate pale palms
and some day my child they said
the right person will hold them
but my hands have ran over many shades of skin
I have touched much pain
my hands
my hands
touched life
and we all know where those places can be
bright and glorious
dark and terrifying
and sometimes I believe them
maybe if I would have hid my hands
maybe if I would have kept that noble innocence
I would have lived longer
perhaps had the right person hold them
my mother told me, my beautiful daughter
still young and naive
pure and childlike
when you walk bow that gentle neck of yours
don't let your newborn eyes become harshly polluted
I remember those words now when I cry
and these tears are not pure, they are not salty and white
but drops of debris and dirt
as bitter as gall
keep your body a temple sacred and known only to you
the deepest curiosity lies in the mystery engraved in the
comely body of a woman who keeps herself a mystery
standing beautiful like a blue rose between red ones
in solitude
gracefully content
and me, now
If I was a flower would be immersed in a euphoria of colors
drenched in the mixing of my body with others
scared by their skin
loved by their hands
and possessed in touch by touch
where do I go
mother, how do I ease myself of these monstrosities
how do I learn how to hold myself again without feeling guilty
