My free time is filled
by measuring the space between my thighs
and counting the pictures on my knuckles,
painted by my teeth,
while hovering a bowl of grief,
in hopes to flush away my mistakes

I want you to know that you are the spilled paint that has spread across the blank canvas that held my life together
You are eraser shavings, blotted ink, and washed out lipstick stains
Created with the hands of the artists inside me, you were created with purpose
Your eyes were drawn by my mother and your lips curved by your father
Your skin is shaded by your grandparents and every dent and freckle was sketched by me
The strength that bleeds between your bones connects you to your ancestors
The ones who bled the same blood for you
Every ounce of your being has a base of pride and you will wear it like a crown

I don’t believe in God, but ****, you could make me scream his name
While your tongue could move like Jesus
Your fingers were like holy water
Ridding the fire hidden in my lungs
Soft prayers about my body whispered into my neck
I was baptized in your shower and on my knees in your kitchen
That cross you wore around your neck tangled in my fingers
I had a new religion

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.